


With who I choose to lose my mind

by alexaprilgarden



Series: The Matilda Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Angst, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Gay Sex, Happy Ending, I apologize for making my villain Polish..., Implied/Referenced Depression, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John gets rimmed, London, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Deaths, Missing, Murder, PTSD, Parentlock, Phone Sex, Post TAB, Raising a Child, Running, Self-Doubt, Separation, Slightly Dystopian Setting, Smut, Sussex, bits and pieces in Polish, brexit makes a short appearance, crime syndicate, if only temporarily, not S4-compliant, parenting, parenting can be hard, proposal, terrorist attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-11-14 02:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 77,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11198340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexaprilgarden/pseuds/alexaprilgarden
Summary: Sequel toA tip to my lips. Set about one year later, in November 2017. It might be helpful if you have readA tip to my lips, but it isn’t strictly necessary.Sherlock and John have been in an established relationship for about one and a half years. They live in 221b Baker Street, together with John’s 21 months old daughter Matilda. Just when everything looks fine they are drawn into a case that threatens John's and Matilda's life and forces them to leave London.---I started writing this before the fourth season of BBC Sherlock aired, so it doesn't comply with the storyline of S4.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Never-ending thanks to my patient, lovely and thorough betas: [TooSelin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TooSelin/pseuds/TooSelin) and [ennisnovember](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ennisnovember/pseuds/ennisnovember).  
> It's a pleasure to work with you. I'm so, so grateful for that. <3  
>   
> Special thanks to [Icanwritesee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/pseuds/Icanwritesee) for the Polish translations! And for your amazing enthusiasm about this fic! <3
> 
> English isn't my first language. If you spot any mistakes, just let me know. Thanks!
> 
> \---  
>   __  
> Another sunrise with my sad captains  
>  With who I choose to lose my mind  
> And if it’s so we only pass this way but once  
> What a perfect waste of time
> 
> Elbow, [My sad captains](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipaDJq7XCSM)  
>  _(Of course_ Elbow _. Always Elbow.)_

“Watson, Matilda, born 3 rd February, 2016. So she’s… 21 months. Fell off from… what did you say, Dr Watson?” 

The A&E paediatrician goes through the sheet she got from the nurse and looks at John. 

“From the stairs. Maybe one and a half metres. She hit her head. She screamed immediately and didn’t throw up. Pupils are symmetrical and not dilated. There's just this bruise on her forehead.” 

Matilda Watson sits on her dad’s lap in an examination room at the A&E at Chelsea and Westminster Children’s Hospital and watches the paediatrician. The large red bruise on her forehead _hurts_ and she has never felt that kind of _hurt_ before. _Bit not good,_ like she hears her dad say rather often. Her cheeks are still wet with the tears she shed earlier. 

She likes walking and she is quick. She can go anywhere she likes. She likes going to a lot of places. Well, at least to those places that aren’t blocked by safety gates. Or locked doors. Or doors she can’t open otherwise. Today, her dad has left both her bedroom door and the safety gate at the stairs open when he had changed her nappy. And when he was finished, he put her down on the floor and tidied up something in her room. She took the opportunity to explore the stairs. Stairs are fine. Stairs don’t just mean walking, but also _climbing_. Climbing downstairs, in this case. _Very good._

She had made it almost halfway downstairs, first crawling down one step at a time on her knees. Then she had figured she might try something new: Dad and pa always _walked_ downstairs. That was when dad discovered she had vanished from her bedroom and saw the open door and gate. 

“Matilda!” 

Startled by the worry in her dad’s voice and the sheer loudness of his calling, she lost her balance and fell over. She has fallen down a lot so far – that’s what children _do_ – but never down a staircase. It was _not good_ , so very _not good_. She got frightened and when she hit the ground next to the kitchen door, it _hurt_. _Hurt_ was unbearable and it didn’t stop. It didn’t stop despite her dad kissing the _hurt_ and taking her into his big arms and carrying her. He also did a few things she didn’t like, such as blinding her eyes with a bright light or firmly touching her back and her head and her neck. And murmuring something like “I have to check if everything’s ok, sweetheart. It’s alright, dear, it’s alright…” 

She cried and cried, and finally her dad stopped checking, but the _hurt_ didn’t stop. He put on her shoes, jacket and her hat, got dressed himself and they took a cab to this place. In the cab, he called pa, sounding worried. 

The paediatrician and her dad are still talking, but she doesn’t listen. _Hurt_ is still there, lingering in her head and thudding. Then the door of this strange smelling room flies open and there is _pa_. She is relieved and happy to see him and she has to show him what happened, he has to know about _hurt_ … Tears prickle in her eyes, her lower lip starts to tremble and she cries again. Pa crosses the room with a few strides and takes her into his arm. He smells like comfort and safety and a mixture of a hundred things she can’t name yet and simply subsumes as _pa_. 

“Shh, little firefly, shhh. It’s alright.” 

He kisses her forehead and she cuddles against his chest. _Things will be good. Dad and pa are here._

“John, what happened?” 

“She fell off mid-way from the stairs to her bedroom.” 

“How? Did she open the gate?” 

“No, I… see, I must’ve left it open. I had just finished changing her nappy and put her on the floor and suddenly she was gone… it was just a second, Sherlock, just one second.” 

The paediatrician, a woman in her mid-thirties, gently interrupts John. 

“This does happen, Dr Watson. It happens to every parent. Matilda will be fine, don’t worry.” 

Sherlock looks at her, almost scowling. “ _Of course_ this does happen. Otherwise there wouldn’t be a department like this, would it?” 

But seeing the worried look in John’s eyes, he clears the sniding tone from his throat and asks, a lot more calmly, “What are you going to do now?” 

“I’d say she looks quite good. We should rule out a concussion and it’s standard procedure to monitor children for 48 hours after they fell on the head. We will x-ray her to make sure her skull is ok. Dr Watson, Matilda, come on, I’ll take you to the x-ray unit.” 

\--- 

Matilda, of course, is ok. She stays in hospital for two nights, as suggested. John stays with her and Sherlock visits during daytime. He brings Bee and some of her toys. Despite the fact that _hospital_ is new and something to be thoroughly explored, her dad won’t let her play with everything she finds. Especially when she overcomes her shyness and wants to find out about buttons and monitors and instruments. Or walking out on the ward on her own. The nurses are a bit scared of Sherlock’s poignant questions and scornful stares. Still they can’t really help adoring the way the two men care about their little girl and for 48 hours, the three of them are the secret attraction of the neurology ward of Chelsea  & Westminster Children’s Hospital. 

When they leave, Matilda is cheerful. The nurses pat her head and wish her all the best, and even Sherlock manages to smile as they leave. Matilda happily blathers throughout the cab ride and when they arrive at Baker Street, she is downright excited. When John is fumbling his keys out of his pocket, none of them notice the man passing them on the sidewalk. Only when he mumbles something into his phone in a low voice, Sherlock turns his head at the strangely familiar sound of the language. 

“Załatwiony. Cześć.” 

_Done. Bye._

Observations and deductions crash into Sherlock’s mind as he watches the man walk down Baker Street, away from them. 

_Almost thirty, grew up under harsh conditions in Warsaw, military training, in the UK for 24, no… 22 months at most. Large criminal record. Armed. Not talking to a friend, but… employer._

“You coming, Sherlock?” John calls from inside the house. He is standing on the stairs, helping Matilda climbing them, their bag in his left hand. Sherlock blinks and goes inside. 

\--- 

A few days later, Mycroft visits unexpectedly. He has just been over for his usual tea-and-bickering about a week ago. So both Sherlock and John are a little surprised when he shows up on an early Tuesday morning. They can tell by the furrows on Mycroft’s forehead that something must have happened. 

“Would you like a tea, Mycroft?” 

“Yes. Thank you, John,” Mycroft replies as he puts a thick Manila folder on the kitchen table. 

He looks at John, at Sherlock, and finally at Matilda, who, grouching and bored by eating the last bites of her breakfast, wants to leave the table. 

“A situation has arisen that we need to discuss. Maybe Mrs Hudson would be so kind as to come upstairs and take care of your daughter for a while.” 

John narrows his eyes. 

“Right,” he says and goes downstairs to Mrs Hudson’s. A few minutes later, they both come back to the flat and she smiles at Matilda. 

“There you are, my little girl. Come on, we’ll go for a little walk in the park.” 

When John has got Matilda dressed and Mrs Hudson and her have left, Mycroft sits down, opens the folder and puts a number of photographs on the table. Most of them show a man with short dark blond hair. He is probably in his early forties, just like John. He is dressed just a hint too fashionable to be practical, but not in a off-showing manner. There is something boyish about him, he even laughs in some of the pictures. He might even look something bordering likeable if he didn’t radiate that air of cool, casual brutality. John recognizes the former military from his posture. A dangerous combination. 

Sherlock takes a step towards the kitchen table, eyeing the pictures. 

“I know him. Poland.” His voice sounds icy. 

“Yes, you do.” 

“Didn’t I send him to prison?” 

Sherlock finally sits down opposite from Mycroft. 

“You did, brother dear, but that was almost three years ago. He managed to escape by bribing half the Polish government. He is staying in London at the moment, as one of our agents found out.” 

John, still leaning on the kitchen counter behind Sherlock, hears Sherlock draw in a sharp breath. 

“Mycroft, what do you want?” 

“This man is known as Sokół.” 

“I know. Get to the _point_ , Mycroft.” 

“We have proof that Sokół reinstated the remainders of Moriarty’s network. He has been operating from his Warsaw prison and has recently settled over to London.” 

“There are no remainders of Moriarty’s network, Mycroft. I destroyed it.” 

Sherlock leans back, his arms crossed in front of his chest. 

“ _We_ very _nearly_ destroyed it, Sherlock. We were almost successful, and by the time I got you out of that situation in Serbia, there wasn’t much left. Still, Sokół has gathered a handful of Moriarty’s former men around him, trying to fill the gap Moriarty left.” 

John clears his throat. 

“Was it him who did the video message in January, last year? When Sherlock was sent to Serbia?” 

“Yes. But something has gone wrong. Someone he has been counting on has been caught. And was working for us.” 

Mycroft looks up at John. Within a blink of an eye, he understands. 

“Mary,” John says, his voice just as icy as Sherlock’s. 

“ _Was_ working for you? What happened?” Sherlock doesn’t hide his impatience. 

“Has she escaped?” Asking this question, John’s heart hammers against his chest. Throughout the last months, he has firmly pushed away every thought about Mary. Now suddenly everything is about to come back with the force of an avalanche. 

_Focus, Watson._

“No, she hasn’t, has she, Mycroft? You are here to tell us something different. You have got a plan.” Sherlock sounds sure, teasing Mycroft into spitting it out. 

“I do. And no, Mary has not escaped.” He pauses. “We think Sokół found out that she was cooperating with us in order to dismantle the very last bit of Moriarty’s cells. You remember, she agreed on cooperating in exchange for not being extradited to US authorities. Two days ago, after we received information on Sokół’s plans, we had her transferred from the place where we kept her back to London. We needed to cooperate closer.” 

Mycroft looks at John, then at his fingers, at the cup of tea. 

“Apparently, the helicopter was sabotaged. It exploded. No survivors. The woman we know as Mary Morstan died two days ago.” 

Something freezes inside John. It feels as if something that has been part of his life is slipping through his fingers like sand now, and he is unable to hold on to it. It takes him a full minute until he can say something. 

“You... you are sure she really died? This wasn’t some kind of plot to fake her death and make her escape?” 

_God, what am I saying._

He has no idea why exactly this is the first thing he asks, when there are a thousand thoughts crashing into his mind. He feels Sherlock’s eyes resting on him, at some point he must have turned from the table towards him. 

“Yes, we are. Something must have gone wrong with the explosion, it probably went off too early. She was still on her way to the helicopter, just a few feet away when it blew up. A large metal part of the helicopter’s cladding hit her and covered her. Still, she died instantly, due to the force of the explosion. Her body is badly burned, but... intact. We could identify her by her teeth. She _is_ dead indeed,” Mycroft replies very calmly. 

John swallows. He feels sick. He has seen bodies like that, more than once. People he knew and liked, even. Still this feels so unreal – _as unreal as having her revealed as an assassin,_ he thinks grimly. 

“I want to see her,” he says voicelessly. 

“John, you don’t...,” Mycroft tries to calm him down. 

“I want. To see her.” John clenches his jaw. 

“I’ll go with you.” 

Sherlock still looks at John, knowing that John won’t let him meet his eyes. Nobody moves and the air in the kitchen is tense with Mycroft’s news. When neither John nor Sherlock say something, Mycroft finally gives in. 

“I can arrange for that. I will send a car later on.” 

Mycroft takes a sip from his tea. He rearranges the papers and photographs on the table. After a while he looks at Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, you infiltrated Sokół’s group in Poland under the identity of a German intelligence agent, Christoph Schwarz. Your cover was not blown. They still believe Schwarz was killed in Serbia, no one knows I got you out of there. This means you are safe for the time being. We need your help, Sherlock. You know Sokół’s group and have insider information.” 

“No, Mycroft. You have got my reports. I told you everything I know. Several times. I won’t do this.” 

“Reports are nothing in comparison to how you can help us in person. This mission requires more than we can derive from _reports_.” 

“No. I’m done with playing the dragon slayer for you.” 

“Maybe you are done playing it for me.” Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "There is, however, something else." He looks at John again. “We have to assume that Sokół found out that Mary was married to you, John. He might… _approach_ you to gather information about how much Mary has told us or to take revenge.” 

John’s heart is pounding as he realizes the extent of what Mycroft is telling them. Pictures of torture, abduction and kidnapping seep into his mind. 

“As I said, Sokół still thinks you, Sherlock, are Christoph Schwarz and thus were tortured to death two years ago in Serbia. You are not in danger yet, Sherlock. Plus, Sokół is very likely unaware of your relationship to John.” 

“What do you suggest?” Sherlock’s voice croaks. 

“John and Matilda leave London. Tomorrow. You will be taken to a safe house about sixty miles away. You stay there until the situation has been cleared, until Sokół is defeated. Sherlock, you assist me. You will not do field work, it is still too high a risk that you will be recognized. And other than you may think, Sherlock, I do _not_ intend to put you into danger.” 

“How long do you think this mission will take?” John asks, in a low voice. He doesn’t know much about undercover work and dismantling terror networks the way Mycroft does. But he has been in the military long enough to understand that they don’t have a lot of options. He looks at Sherlock. His face is ashen. 

“Six to eight weeks. Sokół’s cell is still small and, compared to what Moriarty had built up, weak. They are making mistakes, as you can tell by that helicopter explosion. But they are ruthless, intelligent and aggressive. We need to act quickly.” 

John nods, a little defeated. 

_Oh God, Matilda is in danger. I’m in danger. Leaving Sherlock for weeks. Having him engage in some fucking dangerous mission for Mycroft. When is this ever going to stop?_

“That safe house. Tell us about it,” Sherlock demands. 

“You do know the place, in fact. You surely remember Mrs Robertson, our parents’ neighbour. She passed away last year. I bought the house on behalf of my employer and had it rebuilt into a safe house: Cameras, microphones, safe phone and internet connections. Bullet proof windows, no connection to the public energy or water network. Everything one could need.” 

“Mrs Robertson’s house? It was being renovated last year.” 

“Exactly.” 

The idea of being that close to Sherlock’s parents makes Mycroft’s plan sting a little less. 

“Do your parents, er, know?” 

“I will inform them as soon as we are finished here.” 

_Sussex. Sherlock’s parents._

John huffs an exasperated laugh. 

“Ok, great. How is this supposed to work? Any of this madness, Mycroft?” 

“John, please calm down. I will pick you up tomorrow at twelve. You will be taken to Sussex by a car. Pack your bags until tomorrow, just the very basic things. In case you need to tell someone you are leaving, tell them you are going on a father and child health retreat in Cornwall for a few weeks.” 

“Mycroft, you must be fucking _kidding_. Thisis absurd.” 

“I am absolutely not. If someone in Sussex asks who you are, stick as close to reality as you can. You are a widowed doctor with your daughter, trying to start a new life. If people want to know where you are coming from, tell them the town where you grew up instead of London. Use your mother’s maiden name instead of Watson. Still,I would suggest you stay inside the house as much as you can. There will be surveillance all the time and I’ll have a man posted there constantly.” 

“In that house?” 

“He will be very discreet.” 

“Ah. And apart from that?” 

“Grow a beard. I will have new clothes, shoes and glasses delivered to you later on. Together with a detailed dossier about the whole operation. If you have to go out, always wear the cap you will find among the clothes. It is far from a perfect disguise, but it will make you look different enough on a first glance.” 

“Ok.” 

“Avoid the rooms going out on the street. Stick to those that go out to the garden as much as possible. Keep the curtains closed.” 

“Right.” 

“As I said, there will be a safe phone and a safe internet connection. Still, please be careful with any information during telecommunication.” 

“Are there cameras and microphones in every room?” 

“Yes. Every room in the house is under constant surveillance to make sure no one intrudes. We will have this flat wired as well to secure Sherlock’s safety. Even though the surveillance will probably not be as thorough as it is in the safe house.” 

Mycroft hands John a bunch of plans of the house from the Manila folder. 

“Look, down here in the cellar is a door. Behind that is a gangway connecting to our parents’ house. They will gladly support you at any time. I am sure you will be welcome to spend as much time at their place as you like, but remember to keep away from the rooms heading to the street. But if you meet them in public, do not do anything that might indicate a closer contact than that of friendly neighbours who very, very occasionally meet on the street.” 

_This can’t be true. Sherlock, wake me._

Almost one and a half hours later, after more details and information than John can take and a heated discussion about the necessity of this operation between Sherlock and Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and Matilda come back. 

“I’ll just go upstairs with them,” Sherlock sighs and gets up to go upstairs. John rubs his hand over his face, suddenly tired and worn-out. He looks at Sherlock’s empty chair and tries to reorganize his thoughts. 

Mycroft leaves a little later, after Sherlock has returned from the upstairs bedroom with Matilda. They hear Mrs Hudson’s light steps on her way downstairs to her flat. 

“Twelve o’clock tomorrow, you said?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’ll join you. At least taking you there.” 

Mycroft sighs. 

“Very well. You will hear from me later on. John, Sherlock.” 

And with one last nod towards them he is gone. John looks at Sherlock, who is standing on the last step of the stairs to Matilda’s bedroom. Matilda is on his arm and his hair is ruffled from shoving his hand through it during Mycroft’s visit. 

“Fuck. Sherlock, fuck.” 

“I know, John.” He puts a kiss on Matilda’s short blond hair and sets her down on the floor, from where she walks over to the living room, a little danglingy. “I’ve been thinking upstairs. I despise it, but Mycroft is right. It’s the best we can do. I’m not comfortable with you being here anymore.” 

“I know, for God’s sake. But I still hate it, too.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks about taking his RAMC mug. He holds it in his hand, stares at it for a minute and then mutters, “Fuck it.”  
>  _I’m temporarily living somewhere else, I am not moving out and I will fucking well be back home as soon as Mycroft lets me._
> 
> He puts the cup back into the cupboard with a swift, determined move and a hard _clonk_ when he sets it down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Graphic depictions of violence... or rather dead bodies, that is.
> 
> Also, some smut (and it's only chapter 2).

Sherlock is playing the violin after lunch. Matilda is sleeping upstairs and John sits in his chair, restless, his head spinning with thoughts. He tries to calm down, focus on the music. Sherlock lets the melodies unfold like the thoughts in John’s mind. John isn’t sure whether he is improvising or playing something from memory. 

After a long while the music fades out and drowns in the deafening silence of 221b’s living room. Sherlock looks out of the window. 

“He’s back,” he murmurs. 

“Your brother?” 

“Yes.” 

Two minutes later, Mycroft enters the living room. 

“We can go to the morgue now. If you still want to.” 

“I–“ John clears his throat. “Yes. I do.” He gets up and straightens his jumper. He looks at Sherlock, who is putting his violin on the table. “Matilda’s still asleep.” 

“Been so for over an hour. I’ll go upstairs and get her dressed, maybe she will sleep some more in the car.” 

While they wait for Sherlock to return with Matilda, John tries to think of something to say. He has had so many questions, but now they are all gone. Mycroft just stands in front of the living room door, leaning on his umbrella, waiting calmly. 

“Well,” John tries. 

“I understand that this is an unusual situation for you, despite your time in the army and Afghanistan.” 

“Right. It is. I’ve never been a target… in this way. I’ve been a target because I was a soldier and the army’s presence was seen as a threat by the Taliban. But not me myself, not John Watson. Not me personally.”

“I give you my word that I will do everything possible to keep Matilda, you and Sherlock from any harm. I know that the measures about to be taken are not pleasant, but I am sure you can see it is the only way to guarantee your safety.” 

“I know, Mycroft, I know. Thank you. We’d be rather lost without you.” 

“Or you would not be in this situation at all, John.” 

And with that John understands that he and Matilda have shifted into the circle of persons Mycroft cares for and protects. Just like Sherlock. And that this protection and loyalty might even outweigh Mycroft’s devotion to his work. He feels a wave of sentiment, of thankfulness for his strangely detached, well, brother-in-law. Whatever Mycroft might be to him. 

The car takes them to a place John has never seen. After a driving for a mile through parts of London he has rarely been to, he loses any idea of where they might be. Matilda does indeed fall asleep on the ride and out of a feeling of not disturbing her, neither of them says a word. Maybe it is also because no one knows what to say, because John and Sherlock still aren’t adjusted to this situation and all its implications. Mycroft reads some papers, types a message on his phone and finally looks out of the window, just like John and Sherlock. 

The car stops in front of a bland grey building, something between an office complex and a factory. No signs or names anywhere, but discreetly placed cameras and high fences. When the gate in front of the building opens, the car parks next to a few others close to the building’s entrance. John, with Matilda on his arm, and Sherlock follow Mycroft. They pass security controls and take the lift to the basement. 

_Like fucking Baskerville,_ John thinks, _more basement floors than floors on top_. 

They pass personnel in white lab coats and walk through heavy doors, opened by Mycroft’s ID card. Mycroft stops in front of a door with a glass window, and John can see the familiar metal doors behind which dead bodies are kept. 

“John?” 

John hands Matilda to Sherlock, squeezing his hand for a brief moment. Then he turns and follows Mycroft into the morgue. 

It is nothing he hasn’t seen before. He has seen bodies, barely recognizable, in Afghanistan. And during his medical training. Afghanistan was worse, though, because it lacked the clean stainless steel conditions of a first world’s hospital. In some cases, it was the bodies of comrades, friends even. It was all gory, messy. It isn’t now. 

He scans the body professionally. When he has catalogued the demolition of this human form, he looks for traces of the person he once thought he knew. He finds very little. The right hand is one of the few things he recognizes. Its shape, the finger nails. The colour of the skin. Familiar lines and wrinkles. There isn’t much left intact he could recognize. Death and destruction have taken all humanity from it. Everything that could be associated with sparkling eyes, a cheerful laughter or witty retorts. Or with a promise once made, with a hope once nourished, with warm skin once touched. 

This is the final page of the last chapter of something. Until now, he hadn’t known how to handle Mary’s treason or her being held in some kind of secret prison, still _being_ , lingering. He felt guilty for just blocking any thought that had to do with her. In a perverted way, her death _is_ a relief. 

“Do you need a moment on your own, John?” Mycroft asks minutes later. 

“No. It’s. It’s fine.” He exhales. And with that exhale he doesn’t feel as if sand is running through his fingers anymore. It is rather as if he was ready to let go of it, to throw it away. 

There is still a lot on his mind. Something faintly resembling shock, something faintly resembling anger, something faintly resembling sadness. He is strangely detached from any intensity of emotion and the strongest thing he notices is this feeling of finality. It isn’t good, not good at all. And it does hurt. But somehow, it is ok. John wonders if he should feel guilty for this. He looks at Mycroft. 

“Thank you. For taking me here.” 

Mycroft nods. 

“There are no personal belongings left. Her bag was already on the helicopter and thus destroyed. There is, however, a video from the compound where she was held. It shows her on her way through the building, just when she left. Would you like to see it?” 

John considers briefly and agrees. He takes one last look at the body and then he turns away. 

On the hallway, Sherlock is talking to Matilda, trying to keep her occupied as good as possible. When she sees John, she smiles, unaware of what her dad has just seen. John’s eyes brighten and Sherlock lets go of a tension he didn’t even knew it was there. Matilda stretches out her arms and John takes her, holding her a little closer and tighter than usual. Feeling her warm, small form and all her life. 

In the surveillance video the woman he once knew as Mary looks small. Her hair is darker and her haircut is slightly outgrown. John can see that she was wearing little make-up. Her face is thinner, her cheeks are a little hollow, but the somewhat baggy clothing hides the outlines of her body and makes her look clumsy. There is something about her John doesn’t quite recognize, apart from the changes in her outward appearance. 

_Maybe it has been there all the time. And she didn’t show it. Or I didn’t see it._

Watching that video is weirdly comforting. The woman walking through that building, handcuffed and accompanied by a soldier, bears only a slight resemblance to Mary. She seems to be another person. Mary, apparently, had been long gone. 

\--- 

Back at home, John packs his bag. He still tries to process everything that Mycroft has told them. John can feel Sherlock’s need for a cigarette. Just as much as he could use a drink right now. But neither of that is an option, given that fact that it is afternoon and Matilda is awake. Unaware of the change her little life will be undergoing soon, she wants something to eat, someone to play with and to look after her. 

Between entertaining Matilda, John and Sherlock try to talk. Sherlock is pacing between the living room and the kitchen, carefully stepping over Matilda’s toys. He bends over the documents Mycroft has left on the table as if to find anything new in there, any other way out of this. He doesn’t even stop pacing when the door bell rings and one of Mycroft’s suit-clad men brings a large bag. 

“Dr Watson? This is for you.” 

“Thank you. Ok.” 

“Good-bye, Dr Watson.” 

In the bag he finds a variety of clothes. Much more expensive and a slightly more sportive style than his usual stuff. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at his brother’s choice of fashion, but doesn’t say anything. And John can’t tell if it approval or annoyance. There are a dark blue cap and dark-rimmed glasses Mycroft has mentioned earlier. Next to a thick envelope (the dossier, John assumes) and two new laptops (one for Sherlock and one for him), he finds two new mobile phones with shockingly large displays in their original boxes, complete with headsets and earplugs. 

With his clothes already provided by Mycroft, there isn’t much he is going to take to Sussex. The picture of the three of them Lestrade has taken last year, a few books and medical journals he hasn’t read yet. His gun. 

He thinks about taking his RAMC mug. He holds it in his hand, stares at it for a minute and then mutters, “Fuck it.” _I’m temporarily living somewhere else, I am_ not _moving out and I will fucking well be back home as soon as Mycroft lets me_ . 

He puts the cup back into the cupboard with a swift, determined move and a hard _clonk_ when he sets it down. 

Matilda’s clothes and toys go into a smaller bag. Afterwards he scans through the pages of the dossier, the notes on Sokół and other members from his cell and the reports of Sherlock’s undercover mission. More plans of the house, the back story of his new identity. He tries to memorize the most important facts. It feels like being briefed before a mission during his time in Afghanistan. But the fact that this is not about his troops or holding a camp in the Afghan desert, but protecting his daughter and the man he loves leaves him restless. John would like to go out, take a walk in Regent’s Park, pushing Matilda’s buggy. But it doesn’t feel safe anymore, so he stays in. 

“I think we should tell Mrs Hudson. She’ll be worried if Matilda and I are suddenly gone.” 

“Yes.” 

Sherlock sounds distracted, sitting at the kitchen table, obviously deep in thought. Probably still trying to find another way out of this, even if he said otherwise earlier. 

“I’ll be back in five. Can you keep an eye on Matilda?” 

“Of course.” Sherlock doesn’t even look up from Mycroft’s dossier. 

“Sherlock.” John pauses. "Sherlock, look at me." 

Sherlock lifts his head, somewhat surprised that John wants something from him. 

“Look after Matilda, while I’m downstairs, will you?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock closes the dossier and looks at John. The tension he is under shows in his gaze. 

“Go,” Sherlock says, slowly getting up from the table and sitting down on the floor next to Matilda, who is playing with Bee. 

\--- 

Mrs Hudson is in. She opens after John’s first knock. 

“Er, Mrs Hudson. I just wanted to tell you Matilda and I will be leaving for a few weeks.” _Oh fuck, I’m already screwing it up._ “I mean, not leaving, we are coming back... just be away for a while.” 

“Oh John! Is everything alright? Between Sherlock and you...?” 

“Yes, yes, of course it is. I don’t want to go either.” 

He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t give her that crap health retreat story. 

“It has got to do with that visit of Mycroft’s, hasn’t it?” 

_Oh, clever and kind Mrs Hudson._

“Yes. But… I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry. If, well, anyone asks, tell them Matilda and I have gone on a father and child health retreat on Cornwall.” 

Mrs Hudson raises her eyebrows in mild disbelief. 

“Yes, I know, Mrs Hudson.” He pauses. “We try to be back as soon as possible, but it might take… a few weeks. Sherlock will come and see us eventually." 

It seems as if Mrs Hudson still doesn’t know what to say, so John goes on. “Will you just look after Sherlock a bit? Make sure he eats... at least from time to time? That would be lovely." 

“Of course, John. And do come back in one piece. It breaks my heart to see you two leave and I don’t want to see Sherlock’s heart broken, too.” 

“I know. I know. We’re doing whatever we can, Mrs H.” 

John kisses her cheek, and walks upstairs, thinking that she probably understands a whole lot more than he has just told her. 

Back in the flat, Sherlock and Matilda are still playing on the living room floor. John has another look at his and Matilda's bag. _Looks like we've got everything._

He sighs and takes out his phone and types a text to Harry. 

_Hey Harry, Matilda and I will leave London for a while. Father and daughter health retreat in Cornwall, if anyone asks. I'll keep in touch. - John_

She replies within in a heartbeat. 

_You alright??_

_Yes, everything's fine. Don't worry, Harry. - John_

_For how long will you be going?_

_A couple of weeks. Maybe seven. Can't tell you much more. - John_

_This doesn't sound good. You scare me shitless, actually._

John raises his eyebrows. Of course she is scared. Before he can write back, her next message arrives. 

_Everything ok between Sherlock and you? Is he coming with you?_

_No, he stays here. But we're alright. - John_

_You better had be. That mad tall beauty loves you more than his life._

He huffs a helpless laugh and begins to type, _And_ – he hesitates, but then decides to write it down in spite of the fact that it makes everything sound a tad more dramatic – _I love him just the same. This has nothing to do with us. I’ll text you, ok? Say hi to Melinda. – John_

Over the past year, John and Harry have established a comparatively normal and a comparatively regular rhythm of seeing each other and getting on with each other. They met every few weeks and Harry was delighted to play with Matilda. Sometimes she and Melinda would come over for dinner and even Sherlock seemed to enjoy it. John and Harry even talked. Their parents had died a couple of years ago, both alcoholism and depression taking their toll on them. And somehow they were able to start anew, with Harry being sober for more than two years now and John being… well, being happy. 

_I’m even already missing the two of them. We really shouldn't be anywhere else but in London._

\--- 

Matilda looks up at her dad and pa over dinner. They don’t talk very much. She sits on her pa’s lap. He helps her eating, but she really doesn’t want to be fed. She can do this on her own. Much more fun, anyway. It is a bit difficult, though. Pa keeps cuddling her closer to him than usual and kisses her head a few times over dinner. This doesn’t help with stuffing pasta into her little mouth. 

She can feel something is off, and it leaves her a little restless. Why don’t they laugh or smile at her? She tries a few smiles and grins herself, tries to make some fun. And they smile back at her, but their smiles are always wiped off their faces a second later, only making room for a look that is usually reserved for _bad_. No, not _bad_. More than _bad_. She can’t name it. 

Her pa puts her to sleep. He is holding her for a long moment, tightly pressed against his chest, before kissing her once more and lying her into her small bed. She watches him playing the violin. She can see his body moving and swaying with the music in the dark room, his silhouette against the faint light emerging through the curtains. He plays the pieces she likes best, but today they are tinged with something that tightens her throat and puts a cool grip around her chest. Still, she falls asleep eventually, calmed and comforted by his mere presence. 

Downstairs, John is cleaning up the kitchen. He wasn’t surprised that Sherlock put Matilda to bed. The two of them have established a nice little bedtime routine. And John really doesn’t mind not having to deal with a stubborn 21 months-old that is usually dead tired and yet unwilling to sleep. Tonight, Sherlock is even more patient with her. Tomorrow’s departure is overshadowing the evening, he is saying good-bye to her this way. Probably filing every moment away in his mind palace, every move and whimper of hers. 

A bit later, Mycroft calls to let them know he has informed their parents. Sherlock and Mycroft go through the details for the next day once more. When John lits a fire in the fireplace after a while, Sherlock taps on his phone and ends the call. John is sitting in his chair, his fingers drumming on the arm rest, staring into the flames. He stops when he feels Sherlock’s gaze on him. Sherlock takes a few steps towards him, until he is standing right in front of him. He sinks down on his knees and looks at John. Sherlock’s face is partly hidden in the shade, partly lit by the dancing flames from the fire place. John reaches for Sherlock’s hands. 

“Come here, my man,” John whispers. He pulls Sherlock closer to him, until he feels his breath on his face and his plush, soft lips on his own. He opens his mouth a little, letting his tongue touch Sherlock’s and dives into a deep kiss. Almost one year and four months into their relationship, Sherlock feels so familiar, so intimately known. And yet John can’t ever get enough of him. When they first started sleeping with each other, he thought his hunger, his sheer want for Sherlock’s body and his closeness would be saturated at some point. Maybe it would turn into something comforting, ever-present and stabilizing, he thought. But it hasn’t, it is still the same desperate need for Sherlock. John’s whole body aches with the realization that he won’t have that for _goddamn weeks_ now. Grim want finds its way into their kiss, together with tenderness and care. A delicate worship of the person that is most precious to John, that he loves and desires most. 

They both know that this is the last time before they separate. They take their time, and kiss until kissing isn’t enough anymore. Sherlock pulls John close to himself until John sits at the very edge of his chair, his legs spread wide. He presses against John with all of his body. They start undressing without haste. Caressing every inch of skin that is unveiled, John’s scar, Sherlock’s neck, the delicate skin on the underside of John’s arms. John slides down from the chair to the floor, kneeling in front of Sherlock. They are both on the floor now. He takes his face into his hands, kissing him, and moves around him, until he sits behind Sherlock. 

John kisses his nape and his shoulder. He wraps his arms aroud Sherlock’s ribcage and caresses his chest, his nipples, his neck. He brushes his fingers over Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock sighs. Then John withdraws, sits back and allows a little space between them. He lets his fingertips glide over the scar tissue on Sherlock’s back. He can’t quite see it in the dimly lit living room. But he knows every single one of all these scars, like faded river beds and mountain ridges on an achingly familiar map. It is the map of the terror Sherlock went through to keep him safe. Even though this time Sherlock won’t board a plane and make his way right into the heart of the horror, John doesn’t fail to see the resemblance of his new mission. 

_No field work,_ Mycroft has promised and John desperately hopes he will be able to keep his word. Then Sherlock leans into his touch, closes the distance between them and pulls John’s hands around his torso again. 

“Touch me,” he says, his voice deep and low. He turns around until he is facing John. John feels his warm skin under his touch, his hard nipples and the soft hair on his chest. They kiss. He needs to feel Sherlock more, wants to feel him letting go under his hands. He gently tweaks Sherlock’s left nipple while he lets his other hand glide down from his belly button over his groin, feeling his hardness. Sherlock inhales sharply, open-mouthed, into the kiss and then shifts until he straddles John. He pulls him close, John senses his strength and feels _guarded_ by him. Guarded and wanted. John closes his arms around Sherlock, reciprocating with the same gentle force. 

_I need to feel you, Sherlock. Make sure you are there. Remember everything about how you feel._

They hold onto each other like that, lips and tongues and skin touching. Sherlock’s fingers dig into the muscles on John’s back and he starts grinding his hips against John. John moans, needing to push back, to feel the friction. Sherlock gets up, lifting John with him, and takes him to their bedroom. John opens Sherlock’s trousers with a hint of impatience and gets rid of his own. Sherlock sighs vocally as John cups his cock and his balls with his hand, twitching at the touch despite of the pants. With one rough movement, John lies down on the bed. The sheets feel cool against his skin. 

John’s skin tickles with desire, he suddenly can’t understand how they were able to take it so slowly until now. He moves his pelvis against Sherlock who is right above him. He pushes his cock against his lower belly and his pubic bone, devouring the feeling of Sherlock’s cock just there. 

“I need you so badly, Sherlock, I need to feel you…” John pants against Sherlock’s lips. 

“Get that off,” Sherlock interrupts him, already starting to pull down John’s pants and wrapping his fingers around his cock. 

“God, yes…” John’s voice has gone hoarse. Sherlock’s hands feel glorious, and John shoves down Sherlock’s pants. “Take us both… yes, like _that_ …” 

Their cocks are wet with precome. Sherlock starts moving his hips, thrusting against John’s cock and into his fist. All John can do is getting lost in the sensation and helplessly take in the elegance in Sherlock’s movements. He looks so arousing, so _beautiful_ , straddling John like that. His slim waist, his slender torso, the dark pubic hair against the faintly glistening skin, pale, but tinged with a light shade of pink. Sherlock has closed his eyes and bites his lips. And John watches and watches. 

“Come a little closer,” John whispers. Sherlock shifts, moving upwards. John touches the cheeks of his ass, feels the muscles tensing and relaxing when Sherlock grinds his cock against his. He slides his fingers, slicked with lube he had taken from their bedside cabinet, down his cleft until they have found his anus. Sherlock makes a helpless, desperate noise that turns into a string of pants as John enters his body. Sherlock pushes onto his fingers and against his cock. Small beads of sweat appear on his forehead. His eyes fly open again and his lips form words he doesn’t say. 

When his breathing changes from panting to ragged, Sherlock lets go of their cocks and lifts his hips. John takes the hint and removes his fingers. Sherlock guides John’s cock inside, sinking down on it until it can’t go any further. John’s breathing speeds up and there is a desperate tone in his voice now. Sherlock slowly starts moving, riding him. 

And then, like a mirror falling down and shattering into a thousand tiny shards, Sherlock freezes and reality bursts into countless details. The colour of John’s eyes, dark aquamarine, like the sea seen from a helicopter on a sunny day. The way the fine hair on John’s body glistens in the light. The shape and colour of his nipples. The cool touch of the sheets underneath him. The feeling of being filled by John’s cock _(oh God!)._ His own heart beat pounding in his ears, his blood rushing through his veins and his breath, feeling so cool in his mouth. The bead of precome on his cock, about to drop down on John’s belly, soft and warm and so _John_. 

And after the details come the thoughts, the deductions, flooding his mind, making it spin and taking it close to overload: John will be gone tomorrow, will be out of reach, and they will have to be so careful. Careful when they talk, careful what they do, careful where they allow themselves to be seen. When will he touch John again? Feels his skin, smell it, taste it? What will it be like, being separated? Every fibre of his being is revolting against this idea. He _knows_ there is no alternative to this, yet he loathes it, fights it. 

_Is there another way, could I go with him, protect him, save him? With my bare hands if necessary..._

John’s hands lie on Sherlock’s hips, warm and holding him, guiding him, like that voice that is making its way into his mind. 

“Sherlock.” 

John’s voice is so comforting, so familiar, sounds like home and love and being safe and lost at the same time. 

“Sherlock.” 

And then John’s hands let go of his hips, the air feeling suddenly too cool where he had felt their warm touch seconds ago. He is being dragged down, closer by John pulling his hands. 

“Sherlock, love, come back to me.” 

Sherlock looks into John’s eyes again, the deep sea blue eyes, unfathomable and inexplicable. He sucks in a deep breath when John touches his lower lip with his left hand. John holds Sherlock with his gaze, making sure he is not going to get lost in his mind again. And with his hands, he draws him closer, until Sherlock is bent over him. He cups Sherlock’s head with his left hand and intertwines his fingers with Sherlock’s. 

“Come here. Kiss me.” 

Sherlock blinks until reality has put itself back together into one picture, until all the fissures and cracks are healed. Then he kisses John, desperate for something real, for his touch and his taste. John groans lowly into his kiss. And with that - his physical sensations and his lust, pulsing in his cock, in his blood and in his mind - are back. This is John, alive and warm and real and _inside_ him and _oh my God OH MY GOD_ he needs to move again. 

“Talk to me, John,” he breathes, needing John’s voice like an anchor that keeps him from drifting off again. 

“Sherlock. My love. My man,” John says, not very loudly and with much more breath in his voice than usual. He licks his lips and closes his eyes as Sherlock moves above him, lifting himself up a little to give John space to move against him. John takes up his rhythm with his hips. His movements are just hints of thrusts, but they are enough to keep Sherlock here, with him. And to shut down his worried, overactive mind, that wants to reply something, but suddenly finds itself bereft of all his words. John’s hand glides down his back and Sherlock dimly notices the film of moisture between John’s fingertips and his own skin. John puts it on his hip again, firmly and supporting their rhythm. 

“Move, Sherlock, I want to feel you, I want to feel how you need it.” 

Sherlock’s breath goes faster at this. He can’t help but move a little quicker, too, although he is starting to feel the strain in his thighs. He becomes more daring, tries longer slides up and down John’s cock and he can see John gasping for breath. 

“God, yes.” John’s voice is trembling a little, he swallows. “So good, Sherlock, so good.” 

_Talk to me, John, go on. I need to hear you._

He tries to pour everything he can’t say into his motions, letting his body speak for itself, for him. Then John’s cock brushes against his prostate and his thighs start to shiver, his body takes over. He groans. 

“Sherlock, love, yes…” 

John thrusts into him. And without deciding on _anything_ anymore, Sherlock feels himself moving faster and more intensely, using all the power his body has to offer to intensify this feeling. 

_More, John, more, I beg you, more…_

“God, yes, come…,” John breathes, countering his movements. His cock no longer brushes that spot inside Sherlock, but hits it, hard, until Sherlock is lost, his body dissolving into blazing sensation. 

“Come for me Sherlock, now.” 

_Ooooh, John----_

Sherlock hears John’s voice from a distance again. A string of syllables speaking of everything John feels for Sherlock and maybe making no sense at all. When his voice turns into a whisper, Sherlock feels his hands again, his fingers still knotted into John’s. John is panting under him, his belly covered in Sherlock’s semen and he smiles. 

“I love you, John,” Sherlock says, the first sentence in an eternity and everything he can say. 

“’Know, love. Love you, too.” John is still out of breath. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If John wouldn’t know better, the next morning would start like any other they have spent together since he and Matilda moved back in with Sherlock about one and a half years ago: They let themselves be woken by Matilda, have breakfast and showers later on. They take turns in looking after the little girl, who sometimes plays on her own for a while and then wants to have a book read to her or decides to explore the kitchen drawers once more.
> 
> But John does know better and he can tell Sherlock does as well. They aren’t talking very much, since everything has been said and planned and mapped out yesterday. They are simply waiting for the big plan put into practice.

If John wouldn’t know better, the next morning would start like any other they have spent together since he and Matilda moved back in with Sherlock about one and a half years ago: They let themselves be woken by Matilda, have breakfast and showers later on. They take turns in looking after the little girl, who sometimes plays on her own for a while and then wants to have a book read to her or decides to explore the kitchen drawers once more. 

But John does know better and he can tell Sherlock does as well. They aren’t talking very much, since everything has been said and planned and mapped out yesterday. They are simply waiting for the big plan put into practice. Overly aware of the fact that he won’t be here for a while, John tries to take in the details of the flat and their life. He hates that he doesn’t have a mind palace to go to when he is away. He will have to rely on the pictures in his mind, blurry and fading at the edges like old polaroids. Somehow, the hours pass and at five to twelve, they hear Mycroft’s familiar tread outside the flat. 

John takes Matilda and her car seat, Sherlock takes their bags. They put the seat and Matilda into Mycroft’s car (a big black van, again, Mycroft obviously has adjusted his choice of vehicle to the necessity of driving a family around). Matilda falls asleep before they have even crossed the Thames. 

“So we’re going to your parents’ place and the safe house together?” 

“Not exactly, John. We cannot risk that somebody sees where you are taken. You and Matilda will change cars and drive to the safe house by yourself. Sherlock and I will be going to our parents’ house and meet you in the safe house a little later.” 

“Ah, I see. Sounds reasonable.” 

“Of course it does, John.” 

So when the driver leaves the M23 after an hour and twenty minutes and takes them to a garage in Crawley, they put the luggage in the boot and Matilda's seat in the back seat of a Vauxhall Astra. 

“The address is already programmed in the Sat Navo, John. You will find the keys to the front door on the key ring in the car.” 

“Ok. See you in a bit at the safe house, then?” 

\--- 

John parks the car in front of the house. Matilda has woken up twenty minutes ago and has almost stayed calm throughout the rest of the ride. She is getting annoyed now. When John takes her out of the car, she immediately starts walking across the lawn towards the house of Sherlock’s parents. 

“No, Matilda, come here. We’re going this way. Come on, now,” John says as he takes the bags out of the trunk and opens the door of the house. He puts the bags into the hallway and quickly walks outside again, plucking Matilda from the fence to her grandparents’ house. 

“In we go, sweetheart. Come on.” 

Matilda screams, not delighted at all. John takes her coat and hat off, unties the laces of her shoes and follows her into to the hallway after he has put his own coat on the hook. He looks around. It is actually quite a nice place _(but of_ fucking _course, it isn’t like Mycroft lacked the taste or the means to furnish a house in an unobstrusive, tasteful manner)_ . Everything is new and obviously high quality. They go into the kitchen and John opens a few cupboards to find them well equipped with both food and kitchen utensils. He takes a few cookies from the cupboard – what a coincidence that these are Matilda’s favourites – and offers them to her. Matilda takes a bite, leaving a trail of crumbs as she shuffles over to the living room. Remembering the plans of the house, John takes the bags to his bedroom. Matilda’s room is adjacent to his, there is a large double door between the two rooms. John has noticed the smoke detectors on the ceiling of every room. He suspects that they are where the cameras are installed as well. 

Matilda has found a box of toys in her room, drags some of those clumsy round duplo men out and carries them to John, beaming with pride. 

“Oh, they’re lovely, Matilda.” 

“Da!” 

“Yes, I can see them. You’ve got more of them?” 

She nods and walks back to her room. Over the noise of Matilda emptying the toy box, John hears steps in the hallway. A young man, clad in a dark suit, appears. 

“Dr Watson? I’m Captain Jacob Reid. I’m on this week’s shift for your protection, Sir.” 

Reid stretches out a hand. He is at least ten years younger than John. John takes his hand, shakes it, and adds, a little surprised, “Oh, hello, captain. Well. Thank you.” 

“I will be in the security room, if you need me. I’m in constant contact with Mr Holmes.” 

Reid is gone again and John suddenly is overly aware that his every move in this house is being watched. 

\--- 

Half an hour later, when John is just unpacking their bags, the door to the underground connection to the Holmes’s house opens. He hears Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s steps in the hallway. The sight of Sherlock is weirdly comforting and so very welcome that his chest aches. 

“Hey. Finally here, aren’t you?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock takes a look around. Mycroft vanishes in the security room. When he comes back, he asks, "Do you have any questions, John?” 

“No. Well. Maybe. Can you just show me around?” 

Mycroft does. He points out where the cameras and microphones are in every room and informs John about the schedule of the security officers. 

“Stay as much in the house as possible. I am aware that you cannot possibly be confined to this place for weeks. Maybe you could see it as a kind of...” He pauses, thinks and raises is eyebrows when he points out, “witness-protection-programme. I will see to that the inhabitants of this small town know that you have recently lost your wife and prefer to live a rather secluded life for the coming weeks. People will not ask questions.” 

He looks at John and, a moment later, at Sherlock. 

“We are on a schedule, Sherlock. I shall have a few more words with Mummy and Dad. Meet me at their house in ten minutes.” The door to the connection to the Holmes's house falls shut behind him. 

John doesn't quite know what to say. He hates good-byes and is thinking of something to break the tension. Then Matilda drags some more of her duplo men along and shows them to him and Sherlock, smiling brightly. 

“Pa?” she asks, her hand with a duplo woman outstretched to Sherlock and obviously demanding his opinion on the matter. 

“Let me see, bumble... Yes, that's nice. Her anatomy is a bit strange, but at least you can't swallow her. Very good. You've got more of these?” 

Matilda nods and shows him a duplo child. Sherlock takes her on his arm, caresses her head and kisses her temple. She tells him something about her duplo people on her own language. She is holding them in front of his face once more, so close they almost touch his nose. 

“Bet you'll miss that, Sherlock,” John chuckles, glad for the distraction Matilda offers. 

“Of course. I'll completely lose track of what is going on in the world of children's toys,” Sherlock says, avoiding to bump into Matilda's outstretched hand while he talks. She wriggles herself out of his embrace and Sherlock puts her down again. With another kiss, he whispers, “Good bye, little bee.” Unaware of the fact that she won't see her pa in a while, she walks to her room without turning around again. 

Sherlock's eyes meet John's now and the way they look at him is frighteningly intense. Before things can start to feel awkward, John takes a step towards Sherlock and pulls him into a tight embrace and then into a kiss. It feels no less amazing than their first kiss, makes his heart pound no less against his chest. John is slightly out of breath when he reluctantly lets go of Sherlock. 

“I expect to find you in one piece when I see you again. And in good health. Don't replace all meals with cigarettes.” 

“I do not intend to. Mrs Hudson will see to that.” 

“And as usual, you will ignore her.” John smiles. Then he clears his throat. “Take care, Sherlock.” He doesn't add _because losing you again would tear me apart,_ because this is bloody _obvious._

“I will. Promise.” Sherlock takes a deep breath and presses his lips together before he finally says, “You too, John. Look after Matilda for me.” 

_Oh fuck, Sherlock, don't do this. I can't start crying now._

“Of course.” John tries a smile. 

Sherlock bends down, huffs a quick kiss on the corner of John's mouth, turns and vanishes through the door to the Holmes's house. 

John sits down at the dining table. He is alone with Matilda now. _No, not really. As alone as one can be in a government set-up Big Brother-scenery with armed men watching over you. But still._ He looks around, trying to picture his life here. He sighs, and when Matilda calls for him, he plays with her for a while. 

\--- 

After a few minutes, he hears Mycroft's car driving away. Watson, it's just a couple of weeks. Pull yourself together, his inner captain commands. 

_Right. Better find myself something to do._

He is already searching the kitchen cabinets for teabags, when he hears someone knocking on the door to th gangway to the Holmes's house. It is Margaret Holmes, peaking into the hallway. 

“John, dear, hello.” When she first glanced into the hallway, she seemed to be a bit unsure whether it was ok to stop by. But actually she merely radiates warmth and caring. When John takes a few steps towards her, she hugs him and John inhales her scent. She smells like their house, like a place he has come to like a lot, like washing powder and her perfume. 

“Hey, Margaret. Good to see you,” John says, because it is good to see her. He might have completely underestimated how good it would be to have Sherlock's parents around. 

“You alright, John? God, this is an awful situation.” 

“Yes, it is. I still can't believe it.” 

“I thought you might like something for a late lunch. Or is Matilda tired and needs a nap first?” 

“She slept in the car and... God, lunch would be perfect right now.” He smiles and calls, “Matilda? Looks who's here! Grandma!” 

Lunch with Margaret and Marcus is the best thing that could have happened right now. There is a surreal feeling of normalcy to it. Over the past year they stayed at Sherlock's parents a couple of times. Usually for a few days, giving Margaret and Marcus the opportunity to spend some time with Matilda. And enjoying some time on their own. John has come to like Sherlock's parents a lot. They are surprisingly calm and normal. Despite the fact that their sons are more than a bit above average intelligence and have chosen rather non-average ways of life. But as soon as he got to know Sherlock’s parents a bit better, he realized they are no less clever than their sons. _They just have developed past shoving it up everybody’s face constantly._ Margaret radiates a unique kind of authority. Secretly John always enjoys seeing her rebuking Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock's parents are different from what his parents were like. They aren't only open-minded and more relaxed about basically everything. He feels accepted by them. He knows they like him and they show it. It is like being offered a second chance at having parents. So when he sits down at the table to have rice and a quite amazing homemade curry, this exceptional, stressful situation bothers him a little less. 

\--- 

_This is unacceptable._ Sherlock tosses and turns, quietly raging against the loneliness in his bed. John is not here, Matilda is not here, the flat is entirely too quiet, bereft of all its life and warmth. 

_But you have to accept it, Sherlock, and you will,_ a second voice sneaks into his mind. Mycroft is haunting him far too much. He sighs in frustration. He has been working until late after they came back from Sussex. He was trying to keep his mind occupied to the point where he is too tired to miss John. Then he would slump into bed and fall asleep within minutes. Going without sleep on this mission isn't an option. Not now. Who knows what might be required later. So he is lying here, realizing that his plan hasn't worked. He is dead tired. And yet, as soon as he tried to lie down in his bed, in their bed, all he can do is despise this situation with all his heart. He feels like shooting the wall, stabbing the mantel, punching something. _Focus!_ he calls himself to terms, but focusing on sleep, that's not how it works. You can't focus on sleep. Recollections of cocaine flood his mind, but Sherlock wipes them away. Taking a small dose of very good cocaine had sometimes, very, very rarely, helped him still his mind and fall asleep quickly. But usually the hype that often came with cocaine is the exact opposite of sleep. 

_Sherlock. Can't sleep?_ He can almost hear John's sleep-muffled voice, feel his warm breath against his skin and his arm around his chest. He would allow himself to be pulled closer, turning towards John and stop staring at the dark ceiling. Finally closing his eyes, burying his nose in the crook of John's neck. And inhaling the scent of him until his breathing slows and his thoughts calms down. 

He wakes four and a half hours later to the noise of a text message from Mycroft, informing him that a car will pick him up in thirty. Sherlock is lying on John's pillow. His face is half-hidden under the t-shirt John slept in the night before. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first days are wearing. Wearing because both Sherlock and John get copies of the thick file labelled A.G.R.A..
> 
> Mycroft has it sent over to the safe house the day after John and Matilda moved in. John and Matilda have finished breakfast when Reid enters the room and hands him a package. "From Mr Holmes, Sir," he says and John is tempted to ask, _which one?_ , but it doesn't matter.

The first days are wearing. Wearing because both Sherlock and John get copies of the thick file labelled A.G.R.A.. 

Mycroft has it sent over to the safe house the day after John and Matilda moved in. John and Matilda have finished breakfast when Reid enters the room and hands him a package. "From Mr Holmes, Sir," he says and John is tempted to ask, _which one?_ , but it doesn't matter. 

He gets Matilda dressed and when she is happily playing with her new toys, he opens the package on the dining table. A thick folder. All the information Mycroft had gathered after the woman John knew as Mary was arrested. All the reports from the interrogations during her incarceration. He sits down on the couch and starts reading. 

Sometimes he has to put the piles of paper aside, exhales and stares at the wall for a while or out of the window. Sometimes he watches Matilda playing at his feet or next to him on the sofa. Hard to believe she shares half her genetic material with the woman he is reading about right now. 

The better part of the information is new for John. He knows that Myroft was forced to acknowledge that Mary Morstan was a fake identity after Sherlock had shot Magnussen. The fake identity of an American assassin who had killed in Britain. Who had killed British citizens. He couldn’t let her run, no matter what Sherlock might have had in mind. Her case was never made public – but then, these cases never are – and it had to be dealt with. Within a few weeks, Sherlock had proven that Moriarty’s tv message had been a fake. A fake installed by Mary, obviously doing a job. She was heavily pregnant and a deal was negotiated. She would go to prison after their daughter was born. In prison, another deal was negotiated. Mary was to work together with Mycroft and the British authorities. And in exchange she was not going to be extradited to the US. She agreed to tell Mycroft about the ploy behind Moriarty’s message. About her past, her jobs, everything. She helped Mycroft with her insider's knowledge. That file, lying on John’s lap while he sits in the safe house, is the result. 

What is new for John now is that Mary – he can’t stop himself calling her that, can he – did indeed work for Moriarty. The last job she did for him was John. She was planted at John’s clinic mere days after John returned to work, after Sherlock had jumped. He was grieving, shaken, not himself. She was meant to keep an eye on him. Reporting to Moriarty’s executors in case Sherlock was alive and contacting John. But then Sherlock and Mycroft dismantled Moriarty’s network bit by bit, cell after cell, man after man. Mary’s employers first had to go into hiding for a while and finally vanished completely. Her assignment wasn’t officially over – but it wasn’t needed any more either. Her mission was aborted. But she stayed. She had kept a low profile for quite a while before this assignment. She had gone to nursing school and prepared for a life after the craze of an assassin. So this seemed to be her chance, she liked that life well enough. Her employers were gone, Moriarty was gone. She was sure that everybody connected to A.G.R.A. was gone. As well as everybody who knew that A.G.R.A. had transformed into Mary Morstan. The interrogation records prove that Mary was asked several times why she started pursuing a relationship with John. If it had been part of her assignment. Why she had married John. She had refused to answer Mycroft every single time. 

John manages to keep Matilda occupied with her toys so he can read throughout the morning. Sometimes, when she is getting bored or wants his attention, he sits down next to her on the floor. He plays a while and then goes back to reading, the file lying next to him amidst Matilda, her toys and him. He has no idea how this actually works out, at home he is never able to do that. But then, Sherlock looks after Matilda a lot. Between messaging Lestrade or Molly on his phone. While hearing clients and reading forensic reports. John’s stomach clenches at the thought of him. Eventually he makes lunch, grateful for Mycroft's preparations and a fridge full of food. He puts Matilda to bed afterwards and she is fast asleep ten minutes later. He goes back to reading what Mary had told Mycroft when she had been in prison, how she ended up entrapped with Sokół. 

Moriarty’s death and the disintegration of his criminal network had left a vacuum. Moriarty’s spider web had covered almost the whole world, but in Europe the gap he had left was biggest. When Moriarty killed himself, Sokół had been active in the Eastern European cell. He had been rather new in the network. He had made his way up the criminal hierarchy so far that he led minor operations. Some dealing with arms and drugs, some human trafficking. He was a well-trained former Polish military man. And, even more important, extremely ambitious. But that was something Mycroft only learned after Mary’s arrest, when she told him that it was Sokół who intended to hijack Moriarty’s heritage. He intended to seize the opportunity and occupy the vacuum Moriarty had left. Sokół was behind the fake tv message. He had addressed the rest of the British criminal world as well as the MI5 and MI6. Letting them know that a new Moriarty had taken over. 

John closes the heavy file. The sound it makes when hundreds of pages slump against even more pages is soft, like a sigh. It feels as resigned as he does. He rubs his hand over his face, he is tired. Matilda has been sleeping for almost an hour after lunch. He should go on reading, she might wake any minute and he might not be able to go on reading until the evening. He swallows his questions, his upheaval and ignores the ache in his chest, and opens the file again. 

In these records, the life Mary has lead behind John’s back becomes painfully obvious. After Moriarty’s death Sokół had managed to establish excellent connections in Eastern Europe and Russia, but he was a nobody in Britain. He didn't know enough about Moriarty's contacts there, his methods, his work. A few weeks before Sherlock had him sent to prison, Sokół had found out about a former agent of Moriarty’s who had gone undercover. First this agent was only a contact for him, the number of a secret mobile and the code for encrypted messages. Sokół did a bit of research. He didn't know much about her, but enough to make sure she cooperated. He only ever was a voice on the phone or the sender of encoded texts - questions, assignments, more questions. Threats. Still Mary was sure she could succeed in keeping the details of her identity a secret from Sokół. She decided to play along, hoping to get rid of him eventually and thus be able to maintain her new life. An alternative she liked much better than leaving John for good and going into hiding while she was pregnant. 

Even though Sokół was in a Polish prison by then, he made use of his criminal contacts and a corrupt prison management. Imprisonment didn’t stop him from working on taking over Moriarty’s network. Quite the contrary. He succeeded in bribing Mary into working for him. To become Moriarty’s successor, he needed her insider information. He needed to exploit the advantage she had as someone who had been working with Moriarty for years. Mary told him things she knew – enough to satisfy him and not too much to endanger herself. She also took care of Moriarty’s video footage. She hacked into the BBC to arrange the broadcasting of the video message. At the same time, she secretly had been working on finding out who her ominous employer was. In the beginning Sokół was as much of a mystery to her as she was to him. But when she finally was arrested, she had a rather clear idea about Sokół. She had gathered enough valuable information to trade it against her staying in a British prison. And thus saving her own life, John's and her daughter's for the time being. 

Mycroft’s idea was to use Mary to find out about the remainders of Moriarty’s network. Once it had become clear that there was a new network about to be installed, he intended to derive as much information about Sokół as possible. Their collaboration was successful, Mary proved to be a valuable source of information. She reactivated contacts to former employers and collaborators. When Sokół relocated his headquarters from Poland to London late that summer, there was proof that he planned something big in the UK. Probably at the end of the year. 

Both Mycroft and Mary had been certain that Sokół didn’t know enough about her that John and Matilda might be in danger when Mary was arrested. Despite Mycroft’s best efforts to keep Mary’s collaboration with the British Government a secret, Sokół finally found out about it in October. She was dead within a day. Sokół had been doing his research. 

John stares at the last page of Mary's file. A muffled whimper from Matilda's bedroom calls John back to here and now. Her face is red from sleeping, but her eyes are bright and shiny. He checks her for resemblances to Mary. He sometimes does, never sure if he wants to find any or if he is scared of it. She has blond hair which is turning into loose curls as it grows longer, her eyes are dark blue. But from what he has seen on his own baby pictures, this might be his genes as well as Mary's. She has got his nose, but apart from that, he isn't sure if any of her features are his or Mary's. Only Matilda's, he hopes. 

“Hey Matilda, did you sleep well?” 

Instead of a reply she smiles at him when he changes her nappy. She is blissfully ignorant of what he has learned throughout the past hours. When she starts playing with her duplo men, he sits down with her on the floor. His shoulders ache too much and his neck is too stiff to sit like that for a longer time. He would love to go outside, walk for an hour, pushing Matilda's buggy. 

“Would you like to go for a walk as well? Guess we have to stay indoors, love.” 

She points at the door, forming her favourite single syllable, “Da?” Da can mean anything from _there_ to _daddy_. 

“No, Matilda, we can't go there.” 

John begins to feel trapped in this house. His body is itching with a restlessness he usually only knows from Sherlock. He stretches and checks his new phone for messages from him, but there is nothing. 

Playing with Matilda half-heartedly, his mind wanders to what he has read. Mycroft and Mary had done their best to find out if Sokół knew about John and Matilda by now. They found no proof that he did – but couldn't rule it out either. This was something Mycroft and Sherlock were trying to find out during their mission. They were mapping out the details right now. His laptop beeped with the sound of an incoming e-mail. 

_John, please find attached the protocols from this morning's meeting on the mission.  
Regards, MH _

John scans the pdf file. Mycroft, Sherlock and a couple of MI5 officers have agreed on sending out a second agent to infiltrate Sokół's headquarters in London. When Mary's and Mycroft's collaboration had started, an agent had been assigned to become a member of Sokół's cell. Their man has worked himself into a leading position in the Warsaw cell. He granted Mycroft invaluable information. At the same time, it would be too suspicious if he followed Sokół to London. Due to Sherlock's first-hand knowledge of Sokół, Mycroft wanted him to help choosing the man who would go undercover. And help him lay out his mission. In today's meeting, they mapped out time schedules, various scenarios and outcomes. John could picture Sherlock sitting in some grey conference room, focussed, impatient, his fingers tapping on the table. 

He closes the laptop and returns to Matilda and tries to be a good father and play with her. In the evening, he won't quite remember how he passed the day. 

\--- 

Throughout the next days, John does his best to find a routine. There are regular texts and e-mails from Mycroft or Sherlock on the Sokół case. Calls, even. When they have any new reports or papers on the operation, he reads them, trying to help them in whatever way. They keep him up to date, even if there isn’t much happening. In between, he plays with Matilda and he spends some time with Sherlock’s parents. He carefully tries to walk the line between drowning in loneliness or boredom and not getting on their nerves. 

It half past eleven on the eighth day of the mission, when John’s phone finally chimes with the familiar signal of Sherlock calling. Although Sherlock prefers texting to every other form of telecommunication and although he never has been particularly interested in routine, calling John at night is something he is looking forward to. He knows it means a lot to John, talking to him every night. The imitation of closeness and normalcy. If there ever has been something normal about their lives. 

“Hey, Sherlock.” 

“John.” 

“You’re busy?” 

“Quite a bit. How are you? And Matilda?” 

“Fine. She misses you, though.” 

“She does?” 

“Your parents had a CD with a violin concert playing this afternoon. She was looking around for you and nearly cried.” 

There is a long silence on the other end. Finally, John hears Sherlock sigh. “I miss her, too. It is strange not to have you around.” 

“You’re at home then, now?” 

“Well. No. Not exactly. I’ve left Baker Street for the time being. Mycroft thought it might be too dangerous. Too hard to provide proper surveillance. The security measures our flat allows didn’t quite meet his standards. He is being overprotective.” This might be supposed to sound annoyed, but Sherlock’s voice lacks his usual edge. This hasn’t got anything to do with overprotection. He clears his throat and continues, “Even though he had a man posted there.” 

John inhales, suddenly going tense. “Where are you now?” 

“I’ll stay at Mycroft’s place for the duration of the operation.” John can tell from his voice that Sherlock conceded to this course of action, but doesn’t exactly like it. 

“At Mycroft’s? Oh.” 

“Well. His place is as perfectly wired as yours is. And, of course, he has men posted here, but it’s less of a… one-on-one-surveillance, luckily. It doesn’t feel that much as if I’m being watched constantly.” 

John pictures Sherlock walking around 221b while one of Mycroft’s agents sits on the sofa, eyeing the windows, the doors and Sherlock’s every move. Sherlock would read him within 30 seconds and provoke him with his deductions just for the sake of killing time. The poor man must have been rather confused. John can’t help but huff a laugh. 

“Ah. That’s good to hear. I was getting worried. You having a nice young soldier around you all the time.” 

“Oh, were you?” Sherlock takes up the teasing, apparently just as glad about the short relief as John. 

“You might give him the most annoying time of his life. Or you might seduce him.” 

“John. Honestly?” 

“Well, I used to be a nice young soldier and I couldn’t resist you even though I tried.” 

“John.” John can’t quite tell whether Sherlock is teasing him or if he is… touched. 

“Fuck, I miss you so badly, Sherlock. I miss having you around me and I’m worried sick. Promise me we’ll make it through this.” 

“We will.” Sherlock’s voice is a whisper and he sounds so close that it hurts. 

John thinks that Mycroft’s main reason might be making sure Sherlock isn’t trying to shake off his bodyguard and run around London on his own. He wants to keep him close. Keep him safe. It must be hell for Sherlock. He imagines him pacing up and down Mycroft’s house like a panther, caught in the wilderness and now held in a cage too small for him. The Sherlock he first got to know years ago would never have allowed that. He would have made his escape during the first night. But Sherlock has changed and he knows this isn’t about him any more. He will agree to this confinement, for John’s and Matilda’s sake. John swallows. 

“You keep messing up Mycroft a little, I hope? He could use that.” 

“Of course. Today I rearranged the books in his library. He will hate it.” 

\--- 

Sherlock settles into some kind of routine as well. Living in Mycroft’s house still feels like being caged. But it is a very comfortable cage, after all. 

Mycroft drags Sherlock into the office every morning. To make sure he knows what he is up to. Despite the fact that dismantling Sokół’s cell has top priority for Mycroft, it takes up only a part of his daily work. Sherlock is both repelled and shocked by the endless briefings and meetings and formal dinners. By the sheer amount of time Mycroft devotes to his work. Every day. Mycroft’s car takes them to the office around dawn and it is usually well past nine p.m. before they get back. He finds the extent of paperwork and strategic discussion downright depressing. He decides never to complain about legwork again. The life Mycroft leads would kill him within a week. 

But being part of the Mycroft's task force is better than he would have thought. For the first time in years he finds himself not being treated like the junkie detective brother, but as _Mr Holmes, sir_. As an expert on this special kind of crime network, who has been in the field and dealt with those people. When Mycroft is busy handling his numerous duties, Sherlock works with his team. Planning and preparing the next steps, supported by the ever-present Anthea who has as little of a private life as his brother does. 

The man he picks is in his late twenties. Chris Novak, is the son of Polish immigrants who came to Britain three decades ago. Military training, several missions abroad. Well-trained, tough, with a Slavic face. And, after a brisk haircut and a set of new clothes, perfectly disguised as a petty crook with ambitions instead of a conscience. With a leaning towards brutality and of polish descent. He goes by the name of Krystian Mazur from now on. 

\--- 

John doesn’t know at what point of the day he misses Sherlock most. The first nights when John wakes up in the safe house, he misses waking up with Sherlock’s elbow in his face. His warmth under the duvet. He misses Sherlock slowly turning from one side to the other. Crawling so close to John that he can feel his groin pressed to his ass, giving a very tired and very gentle sign of want. 

He misses Sherlock playing with Matilda. And Matilda misses him. One day, Sherlock is on the phone, talking so loudly against some background noise that Matilda hears his voice while she sits on the floor, playing with her toy bricks. She lifts her head and looks at John, asking “Pa?” and looking at the phone. John sits down beside her, nodding and whispering, “Yeah, that’s your pa.” 

She tries to grab the phone. 

“Sherlock, Matilda wants you on the phone,” he interrupts Sherlock. 

“Oh? Hand her the phone.” 

Matilda has never spoken to someone on the phone. Despite of her just saying her first words, she doesn’t really speak, being twenty-one months old. So when John hands her the phone with a gentle “Go, sweetheart. There’s pa. Say hello,” she is definitely excited – and silent. She grins while John helps her press the phone to her tiny ear and chuckles with joy and excitement at hearing Sherlock’s voice. John can hear Sherlock speaking and so he notices when Sherlock starts to sound puzzled, once again. 

“Matilda? Are you there? Say something, bumble. Hey, Matilda!” 

“I guess you just have to keep talking to her. Just tell her something. She’s delighted, but she doesn’t answer, Sherlock,” John says into the direction of the safe mobile. 

Sherlock does. John can hear his every word as he is still trying to drown out the street noise. 

“Hey, firefly, it is boring without you here. Really. No one wakes me at night. Do you keep dad up in the wee hours of the morning? Don’t do it too often, he will get grumpy after a while. Does he still make you eat bananas? You are absolutely right, they _are_ boring. What are you playing with? These little plastic men Mycroft bought for you? Does grandma play with you? She made Bee for you. You could bribe her into making a companion for Bee. A butterfly, maybe? That would give her something to do. Oh, I miss you, little bumble. And dad.” 

And the image evolving in John’s mind, of Sherlock standing in the middle of some London traffic, telling his toddler daughter _anything_ just because she loves hearing his voice, makes him miss Sherlock so badly that he isn’t sure if all of this safe house thing was a good idea. 

He misses Sherlock when he is eating. Sherlock’s parents ask John to have lunch or dinner with them almost every day. John is grateful for this. When Matilda and he eat on their own, he prepares some food for Matilda and doesn’t really feel like properly making anything for himself. Ordering in doesn’t really comply to Mycroft’s advice on keeping a low profile. So on those evenings he has just some cornflakes or toast on the sofa, watching telly. He misses their bickering over food, their constant little fights that Sherlock should eat more (even though he _is_ eating quite a lot more since they started having sex) or Sherlock stealing food from his plate. 

He misses Sherlock at night. And home. He has slept on campbeds, in hotel rooms and barracks. He has woken up in the bedrooms of the women he dated more than once and, not to mention, in his awful veteran’s flat. Still he has never missed a place the way he misses their home. The small sounds in the safe house are completely different than those at 221b. There isn’t any humming from the traffic outside, no sirens from police cars or ambulances. None of the usual London noise. The stairs creak in a different manner, the doors don’t clap that loudly. The heating clicks less than at it does at home, there is no gurgling in the water pipes. The house smells clean and new, like fresh paint and new furniture, not at all like home. All in all, Mycroft has had it so thoroughly renovated, it looks like a new building from the inside. A very well-watched and wired new building. When John lies in bed at night he can’t forget for one single moment where he is. 

He misses the sex, of course. But also he misses Sherlock’s hand on his belly when he is curled up behind John. His warm breath on his shoulder, a huffed kiss on his neck before John finally falls asleep. He even misses waking up in the middle of the night because Sherlock has grabbed all of the duvet and John lies there without any coverlet, freezing, before he reclaims his part of the comfortable warmth and presses his cold feet against Sherlock’s shins. 

\--- 

Matilda isn’t sure what to think of the _new house_. Like most small children, she doesn’t like changes. She wants things to stay the way they are and the way she is used to them. 

She misses home. Her room, the familiar clutter of their flat, her toys between dad’s and pa’s chairs in the living room. Dad typing on his laptop and pa playing the violin. She has no idea about London and the distance between the safe house and Baker Street, but she knows that this place is different. It just isn’t home. 

She really doesn’t like that pa isn’t here. Missing pa is unfair to an extent she never would have imagined possible. Missing him is like _hurt_. And it never really fades. It is worst at night, when she can’t sleep. Dad cuddles her and carries her and prepares warm milk for her, but still she _misses_ pa. 

Dad isn’t happy. Dad is… _worried_. Like he was when she fell off the stairs and it _hurt_. Worried is a bit not good. He doesn't laugh as much. In fact, he gets louder and less friendly a lot quicker than at home. She doesn't like it and she wants her dad to be the way he usually is. She doesn’t understand why dad is worried and she feels unsettled about it. But being a child of not even two years, she is used to not understanding things. She has explored her little life like someone who explores a garden in the fog. She can see a few steps around her, the familiar things her life is made of: Dad, pa, home. Mrs Hudson, the pram, walks in the park. Bee, her toys, the music from pa’s violin. Waking up and eating and crying and sleeping. What lies beyond that, hidden in the fog, she doesn’t know. She takes one step at a time, discovering something new almost every day. So she leaves to reasons to worry to the part of the world she doesn’t know. 

But there are good things about the _new house_ : Grandma and grandpa. They are fun. They always like playing. Other than dad, who sometimes insists on making dinner or doing the laundry or reading or talking to someone else. Grandma and grandpa never get bored of building towers out of the wooden bricks in grandma’s living room. She keeps telling Matilda that pa used to play with them when he was small. 

Grandma and grandpa are very kind. They comfort her. She likes grandma’s house: It smells like cake and like grandma. She knows it well, because sometimes, dad and pa and her _visit_. Maybe this is a bit like visiting. And maybe, when they have visited long enough, they can go back. Home. To pa. 

\--- 

Later that week, John sits in the kitchen with Margaret, having a cuppa, while Marcus and Matilda are playing in the living room. John is rather grateful that Sherlock's parents are so delighted to look after her, because he finds it increasingly difficult to keep her occupied and happy all the time. _Maybe my own tension is getting to her, too._

It is somewhere between morning and noon and John just can’t force himself to get up and start doing things. Not that there is a lot to do, and this fact bothers him more than he would ever admit. So he just sits there, chatting with Sherlock’s mum. 

He doesn’t quite know how the conversation got there, but to his surprise, he finds himself telling her about his family. She already seems to know bits and pieces. 

“Your parents have died, haven’t they?” 

“Yes, my mother died from cancer when I was just finishing med school and my father died a year before I left for Afghanistan. He… had been drinking for years by then. We weren’t exactly close.” He clears his throat. “After my sister came out as a lesbian things got really difficult at home.” 

“Oh. I understand.” 

And John does actually feel understood by her. Maybe it is because the atmosphere in the Holmes’s house probably never has ever been as tense and wordless as it had been at his home. 

“Many parents don’t take that very well. Having a gay child,” Margaret adds before sipping at her tea. 

John nods. He has to think of how his father stopped talking to Harry. He had been completely lost at how to deal with his daughter. His drinking had got a lot worse then, and so had the whole situation at the Watson’s home. It didn’t really help when Harry moved out a few months later. They never were able to close the gap between them again. John tried to fit in. He had two more years until he finished school and would be able to leave. There had been a boy from the other rugby team. There had been kisses. He had known full well that he didn’t fit in any better than Harry. But he never talked about that with his parents and went for girls instead. 

“What was it like for you? Did Sherlock ever… _tell_ you?” John tries to picture a younger Sherlock having _the talk_ with parents. _No. No, probably not._

Margaret sighs. “Sherlock has always been special in so many ways. And ever since Mycroft had left for boarding school, we have seen him unhappy and alone again and again. He withdrew from everybody. It is such a bad feeling when you…” - she searches for the right words - “…watch your child getting lost that way.” 

She looks at her tea, the mug half empty and getting cold. 

“At some point, I didn’t care if it was a woman or a man he fell in love with. I just wanted him to find someone he loves and, more so, who loves him. Especially after the drugs. And no, he didn’t tell us. Mycroft told us about Victor, but by then I had figured it out myself. And I simply realized I didn’t care that he was gay.” 

John realizes that maybe he should feel slightly awkward about discussing Sherlock's sexuality with his mother. Especially since he himself is the one that very sexuality is put into practice with – but he can’t really bother. This is the most adult talk he has ever had with a person from his parents’ generation. 

“It took Marcus a little while to get used to it, though. Not because he had a problem with Sherlock being attracted to men, it was rather that he had been always hoping for grandchildren, I guess. And since it didn’t exactly look like Mycroft was ever going to have any, he clung to the hope that maybe Sherlock would. But back then it was unusual for gay couples to have children.” She huffs a small laugh. “He is much more sentimental than I am. More sensitive. They are very alike in that way, Sherlock and his father.” 

Now John understands Marcus’s affection for Matilda a bit better and he has to smile, hearing Sherlock’s dad and Matilda talk and laugh across the hallway. He is a bit surprised by what Margaret said about Mycroft, though. Did she refer to his work? Or…? He looks at Margaret, somewhat fascinated by the insight she has in her sons. But before he can give that any further thought, Marcus and Matilda come to the kitchen. 

“I think she is hungry, John. Marge, do we have any bananas left?” 

\--- 

The sound John’s phone makes, that low humming as it vibrates against the bedside cabinet, is nearly inaudible. Matilda is crying, tucked against John’s chest. He is carrying her around in his bedroom and rocking her. The first nights at the safe house were a bit restless, of course. But John hoped that once they grew accustomed to the whole situation and to the new place, Matilda would fall asleep easier. 

_As if someone could grow accustomed to this. Who was I actually trying fool._

She didn’t. At home, Sherlock usually takes her to bed. He is, weirdly enough, more patient with her in the evening. He plays the violin for as long as it takes her to doze off. And on most evenings, it doesn’t take her very long. It seems as if Matilda does not like that particular change in her routine. And the fact that John feels rather helpless without Sherlock makes it even worse. Matilda cries until her face is red, her cheeks are wet with tears and her blond curls are plastered to her head. First she goes tense and then stiff with the ferocity of her crying against John’s body. His arms and his bad shoulder ache from holding her. He needs to sit down, he yearns to trick himself into relaxing by watching some stupid shows on the telly. Relaxing is hard, he can never quite shake off the tension. He doesn’t sleep well. 

He doesn’t sleep well at all. He manages to keep the worries at bay throughout the day. He tells himself that this is the most reasonable thing they can do right now. He and Matilda at the safehouse. Sherlock and Mycroft in London, trying to take down a large-scale criminal. He tells himself that Mycroft has taken every safety measure possible to guarantee Matilda’s and Sherlock’s well-being. And his own, that is. He tells himself that waiting is part of the operation. God knows, Captain John Watson knows about waiting. The better part of his time in Afghanistan was about waiting. Except when there had been fights and he had to work 18 hours straight. Waiting or doing things in a rush, under pressure, on the edge. He likes the rush better, if he is honest. But there is no rush here. Not at all. Just too much time waiting, too much time trying not to think. 

At night, all those worries he explains away throughout the day come back. In his dreams, he is getting phone calls from Mycroft telling him Sherlock has been caught by Sokół’s men. That he has been killed. He can hear the pain in Mycroft’s voice. For some odd reason, the way Mycroft sounds is almost as bad as the idea of losing Sherlock for the second, no, the third time. Christ, he is even losing count. Or he dreams about coming to Matilda’s room and finding her shot amongst her beloved little plastic toys. A killer in a combat suit on the other side of the room, ready to shoot him as well. Sometimes, images of Sherlock on the pavement pop up. Or the taste of sand and blood on his tongue, the sound of machine gun fire and grenade launchers in the mountains in his ears. The feeling of blood spilling over his shoulder and chest. The disbelief at the realization that it is his own blood. Every time he wakes he reaches for his shot shoulder, and every time he is relieved not to feel the warm stickiness. 

He considers it a good thing if he wakes. When the nightmares are interrupted. When he can go back to telling himself that everything is ok, everything is under control. He resists the urge to call Sherlock. If Sherlock is asleep, he should bloody well let him sleep. There is a faint urge to get up, pour himself a glass of whiskey, hoping it will soothe the stress. But Mycroft’s otherwise perfectly equipped house lacks anything stronger than mouth-wash. He half-heartedly tries to recall the relaxation techniques Ella showed him after he was diagnosed with PTSD. They do work. Or they would, if he really would try to relax. So he spends a good part of his nights lying in bed, awake, mapping out possible scenarios. Sometimes he gets up to walk over to Matilda’s room. He silently opens the door he has left ajar earlier, and looks at her. This is the only thing that calms him down. 

It is Sherlock calling, but it is no use taking the call right now. When the vibrating stops, John texts a quick _Can’t. Later._ and hopes Sherlock will figure out what is going on. He hopes it isn’t anything urgent. 

John checks the time on his phone. Twenty to nine, John has been trying to put her to bed for more than an hour now. He is frustrated and exhausted from not doing anything today. He tried to comfort and soothe Matilda in every possible way, but it isn’t working. Although she may be oblivious about what is happening in detail, she does understand very well things aren’t fine. 

When it didn’t get any better after the first nights, he asked Marcus about that CD with violin concertos Matilda has heard at her grandparents' house the other day and was fascinated by. The familiar music might help. As he pressed the play button on the CD player, she fell silent and opened her eyes, blue and glistening with tears. She listened for a long moment and then John felt her holding her breath before she resumed to cry. 

Maybe it is exhaustion and weariness. Maybe it is the sheer ridiculous helplessness that makes John start humming. It takes him a while until he remembers the words to this song. 

_Stars shining bright above you / night breezes seem to whisper I love you / birds singing in the sycamore tree / dream a little dream of me_ . 

John has to smiles despite of his wailing daughter and his own tiredness. He goes on singing, even if it is mainly calming himself. Somehow the words fall into place and he manages another verse. 

_Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you / sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you / and in your dreams whatever they be / dream a little dream of me._

John sometimes sings at Baker Street, when he is cooking and in an good mood. But he always feels a little self-conscious about it. Sherlock knows about music, while John has a hard time deciphering notes on a sheet. His clarinet lessons are lifetimes away. But he likes the simple melody and, actually, the lyrics aren’t too bad, either. And, miraculously, it works. After a few minutes, Matilda pauses in her crying, she yawns and sleep is slowly taking over. John can’t quite believe it. By the time he sings the song for what might be the tenth time, she - finally! - falls asleep. John goes on for a while, just to be sure. 

When he has laid her in her small bed without waking her up again, it strikes him that the song is as much for Matilda as it is for him. 

_Stars fading and I linger on, dear / still craving your kiss / I am longing to linger till dawn, dear / just saying this._

He exhales with yet another sudden realization of how much he misses Sherlock. He picks up his phone and calls back. 

“John.” 

“Hey, Sherlock. You’ve called.” 

“I did.” John’s heart aches at the sound of his voice and he hates how vulnerable and emotional he becomes. _Pull yourself together, Watson._ “You were busy.” 

Now it is John’s turn to think _Obviously,_ but instead he goes for “Yeah. Matilda. It’s rather hard putting her to bed. Takes ages until she’s asleep.” 

“Figured.” 

“You’ve called early tonight.” 

“We are having a break. Mycroft’s away for some board meeting or whatever. I’m not getting anywhere with my files so I thought I might as well call.” 

“You’ll go on working later on?” 

“Yes. We need to.” 

“Right. What are you working on?” 

“We discussed different possible scenarios to take down Sokół’s network. I tried to speed things up by reviewing the plans.” 

“How’s it going?” 

“Frustrating, John. I need more data. Sokół is hard to catch, despite everything Mycroft has said about him making mistakes. One should think my brother had more information on that man after interrogating Mary. And receiving information from an undercover agent in Warsaw for months. I was foolish enough to believe he had a back up plan worked out, waiting in his drawer.” 

John has to laugh, but he is alarmed at the same time. “But you’ve already picked that agent who is going to infiltrate Sokół’s headquarters in London?” 

“Yes. Good man. His mission is about to start as soon as we get clearance.” 

“Good. That’s good. Isn’t it?” 

“Yes, it is, but he should have been undercover since the day we picked him. We are still waiting for some official to sign a sodding paper before he goes. We are losing days, John. Everything takes” - he spits the word out in frustration - “forever.” Sherlock’s exhale is loaded with impatience. “Sometimes I’m not sure if Mycroft knows that this isn’t one of his wars or coups overseas. Or a case, for God’s sake.” 

“Hey, easy. You’re doing everything you can. And so is Mycroft. I’m sure you’ll be making some progress soon. You’ve got a whole task force at hand.” _I am trying to calm me at least as much as I try to calm him._

“I do hope so.” There is a noise in the background. “Mycroft is back. I’ll call you later, John.” 

Sherlock does indeed call later. But they only talk for a few minutes, John can tell Sherlock is distracted by the work. Later, when he is lying in his bed again, startled by another nightmare, that he realizes how much he misses the warmth in Sherlock’s voice. That faint substitute for closeness. 

_Still craving your kiss._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ok. Sherlock – this is… difficult. Yeah. I know what I am supposed to do. And I try to do it the best way I can.” John pauses in his pacing and stares at the ceiling. “But. It is driving me up the wall. I’m reading all your reports and things and – there’s nothing I can do. I’m sitting miles away in fucking Sussex. I can’t do anything to contribute to the mission, I can’t even go out and… kick a tree or something. Shout at the waves. Can’t even slam the fucking expensive doors your brother had built in here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count has gone up! There'll be 14 instead of 13 chapters.

The next days aren’t any better. John gets more and more wound up. The nights are a nightmarish mess, and the days are tedious. The evenings are exhausting, although the singing helps and Matilda falls asleep a bit quicker. Sometimes. 

One night, John is counting down the minutes until Sherlock calls. He does call almost every night. In a break during their late night discussions of the mission. Or when Mycroft is out, attending some formal dinner at Whitehall, at a club or wherever. John is usually in bed by then, reading a book or watching something on his laptop. Talking to Sherlock on the phone often is the last thing he does. He switches off the light, so the room is filled by Sherlock's voice and he can trick himself into believing he was much closer to him. The way he misses Sherlock, craves him, is grating in his nerves. 

He reread A.G.R.A.’s and Sokół’s files today - to kill the time. Or to see if he would find anything that might help him understand any of this. It has left him restless. This kind of information is nothing he hasn’t encountered before. Criminal networks are hardly news to him, and in his army days, he has had his share of strategy briefings. But being forced to sit here in Sussex without anything to contribute is wearing him down in a way he hadn't thought possible. 

He feels antsy, he can’t stay in bed. He gets up to have a glass of water. 

_And we’re only twelve days into the mission. Fuck._

He does have a mission, of course: Taking care of Matilda, staying in hiding, staying safe. And to accomplish that he has to do – nothing. Nothing but sitting in the house and keeping Matilda occupied. 

_Christ, I know all her children’s books without even looking at the pages by now._

He tries to keep himself from getting mad. Which proves to be the harder thing to do. He reads every report, but all he can do is nod, Good work, boys. And remember that every idea he has has probably already crossed the Holmes brothers’ minds. He feels fucking trapped in this perfect little house. He doesn’t want to tell Sherlock any of this, though. 

_I am not going to screw this up, and I am not going to make it any more difficult than it already is. It is my murdered assassin wife that got us into this, after all._

The vibrating of the phone is too loud and brutally rips his train of thought. 

“Yeah? Sherlock?” 

“Hello, John.” 

John’s chest aches at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. 

_Please, I don’t want to screw this up._

“Hi… How are you?” 

“Things are proceeding. Slowly.” Sherlock sounds tired, but no more worried than usual. 

_Good. Very good. I’m good, too,_ John thinks. 

“You?” 

“Yeah, fine.” He clears his throat. 

“John.” 

_Sherlock doesn't buy it. But of course._

“No, everything’s just. Fine.” He inhales sharply and tries to change the subject. “Today Matilda played with your dad and–“ 

“John. What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, Sherlock. I told you. I’m good.” 

That comes out more defensive than he intended. 

“I can tell by your breathing rate that you are agitated. I can hear that you are pacing and if I had to picture you now, I would say you are clenching your right hand.” 

John stops dead and stares at his hand, cramped into a fist. Fuck. 

“You are not fine, John.” 

John capitulates. The times he could get away with not talking are apparently over for good. 

“Right.” 

“So. John. What is it?” 

“Can’t you deduce it then?” 

“I’d rather hear it from you.” 

John draws a long breath. While he is still trying to figure out what to say, Sherlock interrupts him. 

“John, I can see that this is a difficult situation. If we start having a go at each other, things will become harder. I do not want that. Don't avoid me.” And after a small pause he adds, calmer now, “Please. Talk to me.” 

John exhales. 

“Ok. Sherlock – this is… difficult. Yeah. I know what I am supposed to do. And I try to do it the best way I can.” He pauses in his pacing and stares at the ceiling. “But. It is driving me up the wall. I’m reading all your reports and things and – there’s nothing I can do. I’m sitting miles away in fucking Sussex. I can’t do anything to contribute to the mission, I can’t even go out and… kick a tree or something. Shout at the waves. Can’t even slam the fucking expensive doors your brother had built in here.” 

He feels the frustration rise in his gut. Maybe this isn’t like Afghanistan after all. There his ability to stay calm enough under pressure to save lives also saved his own sanity. Maybe this resembles his time back in London, when he came back as a broken man in so many ways. When he was lost in his purposelessness. In his feeling of having failed. 

“Matilda is a little angel, but she is getting more bored and whingey every day. She doesn’t sleep well and it is just. Well. Getting on my nerves.” He rubs a hand over his face. “God. I hate myself. I’m supposed to protect her.” 

“You are doing exactly that, John.” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Yes, you are. You are making sure you’re both safe. You are doing a brilliant job at taking care of Matilda and protecting her. Thanks to you being away – and you know I dislike it as well, John – thanks to that I can focus on the work.” 

John takes another deep breath. The feeling of failure slightly looses its grip on John's chest. Suddenly he feels tired. He sinks down on the sofa with heavy limbs. And he isn't sure if he will be able to get up ever again. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” 

“John. What can we do?” 

“Don’t know. It’s not that easy, is it. Those reports... I don't know, Sherlock. Want to know what's going on, but I’m not into all that strategic planning, am I. Not much of a help.” 

“You do have a considerable knowledge about military tactics from your time in the army.” 

“Sherlock, I was a soldier, yes. But most of all I was doctor. I tried to fix whoever got wounded in the fucking strategics our superiors in Camp Bastion or the Taliban came up with.” 

Sherlock remains silent on the other side. 

After a while John continues, “I don’t think this is getting us anywhere. Sometimes…” He stares at the curtain-covered windows. “Well. Don’t know, but sometimes I think it might help if I could do something else but sit around. Just – get out. Move. Distract myself. Anything.” 

“You’re probably right. I should have seen that.” 

“Don't know, Sherlock. Maybe Mycroft could put one of his treadmills in the cellar.” John huffs a laugh, not knowing where it came from – frustration or relief. The tension that held his body in a tight knot over the past few days is slowly dissolving. 

“I’ll talk to him. See what we can do.” 

“No, I can do that. I’ll call him tomorrow.” 

John feels a little lighter. Calling Mycroft and finding himself some kind of work-out is something he can do, at least. It doesn’t help them with the mission, but maybe it helps him letting off some steam and being able to focus again. Being more patient with Matilda. He relaxes a bit into the cushions of the sofa, when Sherlock clears his throat. 

“John, nonetheless I want you to keep reading the reports. And do tell us whatever comes to your mind. Your input has often provided me with a lot of insight.” 

“Course I will, Sherlock.” 

“Thank you.” 

John closes his eyes. As Sherlock starts to tell him about the progress of the past days, he is grateful for the simple yet incredible pleasure of being able to listen to his voice. To the melody of his sentences. To be the one Sherlock talks to like this. 

“Sherlock?” he asks, when Sherlock has finished. 

“Yes?” 

“Thank you.” 

“It’s alright, John.” 

\--- 

Sherlock wakes, startled. His heart is beating hard and fast and his skin feels clammy. His legs are claustrophobic, caught in the duvet. The pictures from his nightmare are fading and he doesn’t try to keep hold of them. He checks his mobile: half past three in the morning. He takes a deep breath. After a few moments, his heart is beating normally again. 

He mentally scans through today's schedule. He tries to focus on the questions that will be discussed, and the steps that need to be taken. He knows they are working with the best men and women Mycroft could mobilise. Yet everything takes so much longer than he can tolerate. Sherlock can't shake off his impatience and tension, especially not at night. After a while he has figured out a number of solutions for today's questions. The feeling of having accomplished a small something provides only little comfort. He has to admit that further thinking isn't of any help to speed things up. Or to get any sleep, that is. With one last deep exhale, he tries to let go. 

It has taken him a long time to fall asleep after talking to John on the phone last night. His mind couldn't get to rest – first he thought about John feeling useless, then about the mission. The responsibility was weighing heavy on him. Eventually, he drifted off. Ever since John had started sharing his bed and Sherlock felt his presence throughout the night, he has slept a lot better. A lot more as well, actually. John's absence and their mission had him return to his old, erratic sleeping patterns within days. But while he never minded it in the past, he finds it unsettling now. 

When he wakes at home – if he does, it happens rarely now – he feels John's sleeping presence. If they aren't touching, he shifts closer to him. He buries his face in John's arms if he is facing him or he wraps himself around John's back if he is lying on his other side. Sometimes, when Sherlock is too tired, just conscious enough to realize John is there, he stretches out his hand until he feels him. His strong back, his arms, his face. His hair. John. 

Sometimes, John is awake. Sherlock can tell by his breathing pattern the moment he hears it. He can tell if John is awake and thinking – about Matilda, about a case. If he is trying to figure things out – Mary. Or if he has woken from a nightmare a minute earlier, just returning to 221b's reality from the Afghan desert or from the pavement in front of St Bart's. Then they slot into each other, murmuring sleep-broken soothing words. Holding each other until their hearts are beating slower and steadier. Sometimes holding turns into kissing. And that might turn into breathless climaxes in the darkness. And later they fall asleep again, together, spent, and their minds blank and peaceful. 

Sherlock had given in to loving John years ago. When they finally became this, it still felt unreal for a very, very long time. So it does surprise him a little how much he misses John. Even though he knows that this – this mission, the safe house – is necessary to guarantee their safety and to end this game. But that's it. He misses John, he misses them being together and everything it means. He has given up being alone and relying on no one but himself and now he can't – he doesn't want to – go back, not even for a while. 

Sherlock can't stand his empty bed any more. He gets up and walks to the window where a street lantern casts a faint light in the silence of the night. He craves a cigarette, but he knows how much John dislikes it. And he is smoking too much already, after all. He just opens the window to feel the crisp air. In this part of London there are less noises at night, less than at Baker Street or leave alone in Soho. When he starts shivering despite his dressing gown, he closes the window again and picks up his violin. 

He plays for a long time. After a while, he doesn't feel the loneliness any more. The loneliness of not having Matilda around and playing for her. For John. Then the familiarity that has grown during thousands of hours of playing this instrument fades as well. At last, his mind dissolves and only the music is left. 

An eternity later he puts the bow down. The black night sky is turning into a faint grey. His fingertips are numb where they pressed the strings against the neck of the violin. His shoulder aches a little. But he is calm and his mind is clear. He thinks of John, how he might lift a wailing Matilda from her bed right now, both of them sleepy and warm. John might whisper something into her ear, kiss her head and prepare breakfast for the two of them. Or maybe he takes her back to his own bed, leans against the headboard with Matilda on his lap. Maybe he reads her her favourite books until they both fall asleep for another hour. 

This is what Sherlock is doing this for. 

\--- 

One and a half hours later, Mycroft and Sherlock are standing in the elevator, heading for Mycroft’s office. Once they arrive on the right floor, Anthea catches up on them and hands Mycroft a file. 

“There’s the meeting concerning the new agent for the Sokół mission at nine, sir. Conference room three.” 

“Thank you, Anthea. Did Lady Smallwood call?” 

“Yes. She has agreed to sending out an extra agent.” 

“Did she, finally. Anything else?” 

“Nothing I couldn’t handle, sir.” 

“Very good. Please make sure my brother and I won’t be disturbed until the meeting.” 

In Mycroft’s office, they go through Chris Novak’s dossier and the plan of the mission once more. “You know Sokół better than any one of us. You choose the agent, Sherlock. Do choose wisely,” Mycroft said a few days ago, before they had interviewed the candidates for the undercover mission. 

At nine o’clock, Novak is waiting for them in conference room three, together with some other officers from the task force. 

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft nods to the handful of men and women gathered around the large table. 

“Mr Novak, your mission as Krystian Mazur is about to start tomorrow. You have read the files I have sent you beforehand. Sokół has already received word from his Warsaw base that Mazur’s background and his family in Poland have been checked. And recruiting him is recommended – thanks to our agent in Warsaw. Mr Novak, Sokół’s men will come to pick you up tomorrow morning in Mazur’s flat in Mile End.” 

When Novak nods, Mycroft carries on. “Your mission is quite simple. You are to establish contact with Sokół. Most probably, you will be ordered to do smaller jobs for the first weeks. We will try to get you into his inner circle as quickly as possible. Earn the trust of his subordinates and do find out about the operation they are planning for the end of the year. Our main goals are preventing this attack and arresting and thus stopping Sokół.” 

Sherlock would gladly replace arresting with eliminating. To make sure Sokół will never pose a threat to John and Matilda again. He told Mycroft so. “That, brother mine, is out of my hands,” Mycroft replied. “But,” he added, “experience has taught me that it is rather likely that he will not survive this mission.” 

Mycroft clears his throat and adds, “And, Mr Novak, do find out if Dr Watson and his daughter are possible targets of Sokół’s.” 

“Very well, sir.” 

Novak looks nothing but professional. 

_He has done that before, he is trained for it,_ Sherlock thinks, _other than me before I went to Serbia._

He has the most paradox feeling about assigning Novak to infiltrate Sokół’s group. On the one hand, he can’t wait until Novak starts his mission and helps them finish Sokół off. On the hand, he is sick about this very thing. Sherlock knows Sokół and what he is capable of. He is reminded of that every day by some especially nasty scars on his back. 

“As for the task force: There will be daily meetings at nine o’clock in this conference room. As soon as we have information on where Sokół’s headquarters are situated in London, our first step will be installing a nearby base for the task force. Including surveillance of Sokół’s location. The force will be on standby in case Mr Novak requires it. As soon as we have any information on Sokół’s operation, we will adjust our modus operandi. You have been informed about possible scenarios.” 

The members of the task force nod, some flip through the pages of the files lying on the table. 

“Mr Novak, I expect reports twice a day. If you are lacking background information about your target, my brother will provide you at any given time.” 

Mycroft eyes the men and women thoroughly. 

“Questions, anyone?” 

\--- 

Mycroft and Sherlock rush to the door to head back to the office, when Sherlock stops and turns. Novak is talking to the head of the task force, but he stops as Sherlock approaches them. 

“Mr Novak–“ Sherlocks starts – and then stops, taking in the appearance of the young man again. He has clear blue eyes. He radiates the same military professionalism and sense of duty Sherlock knows from John. It is hard to believe that Novak is able to turn into a ruthless criminal if demanded. But Sherlock has seen video footage from earlier missions. It proved his qualifications as an undercover agent. Finally, Sherlock blinks twice and stretches out his hand to him. “Good luck.” 

Back in the office, Mycroft throws a scornful look at him. 

“He is an agent, a soldier, Sherlock. Not your personal saviour. You are getting involved. Do not.” His voice is icy. 

“Of course I am involved,” Sherlock spits out. “This is none of your political chess games. It is my –“, he bites down the rest of the sentence in frustration. _Am I incapable of finishing any sentence I start today?_ He inhales, and faces Mycroft again. “It is my family.” 

“Which I am perfectly aware of,” Mycroft retorts through gritted teeth. Then he shakes his head and looks at Sherlock for a long moment. He sounds weary when he says, “And that is why it is absolutely counterproductive if any of us gets lost in sentiment and panics halfway through the mission.” He pauses. “Do pull yourself together, Sherlock. I am, after all, trying to help.” 

\--- 

_Sherlock._

John wakes at the sound of Matilda talking to herself. He has dreamed of Sherlock, but he can’t remember what. It felt so real, almost as if he was lying next to him, warm and beautiful and real. He thinks of their talk late last night. It turned out completely different than he had planned. He didn’t want to tell Sherlock any of what he felt, and yet - that was exactly what he did. It doesn’t feel wrong, though. 

Matilda must still be lying in her bed, toying around with Bee. He can tell by the light from the windows that it is later than usual. Ten past seven, when he checks his phone. Matilda sounds happy, and so he stays in bed for a few more minutes. 

He slept better this night. And longer, apparently Matilda needed the sleep just as he did. Nothings has changed, but things are a bit lighter this morning. 

He prepares breakfast, Matilda eats half a toast and ends up covered in jam. He cleans her up, helps her dress. Not even two and she already wants to do this on her own. _We’ll have a lot of fun when she gets older,_ John thinks at the stubbornness of his daughter. 

He takes his phone, scrolls the few contacts and hesitates. 

_I’m going to make a complete fool of myself. Mycroft has more urgent things to deal with._

But then he calls him anyway. 

“Good morning, John.” 

“Good morning, Mycroft. I… Well, I’ve got a question. I need to move. Or get out. Just from time to time. Getting a bit of cabin fever here… Do you think that’s possible?” 

“Of course, John. I will contact Reid and Jacobson and arrange for that.” 

John swallows. 

“Anything else, John?” 

“No. No, that’s it. Thanks, Mycroft.” 

“I’ll be in touch.” Mycroft ends the call. 

In the afternoon Officer Jacobson enters the flat. Jacobson is the female security officer assigned to the safe house. She looks older than she probably is, 27 or 28. She is a few centimetres taller than John and could be Anthea’s younger sister. Reid and Jacobson rarely show up in the flat. John goes to their surveillance room at least once a day, exchanges a few words and sees how things are going. He has got Mycroft’s reports, so he wouldn’t need to do that, but it feels right. Sense of duty from his army days kicking in. 

“Dr Watson? Mr Holmes had these sent over for you.” 

She hands him a pair of running shoes and a running kit. 

“Oh. Yeah, thanks!” _I really shouldn’t be surprised at this._

“Mr Holmes told me to go running with you. We will pick a new route every time. I have already prepared some, sir.” 

John stares at the trainers and the clothes. The weather is not bad, it is cloudy, but dry and mild. 

_I could ask Margaret if Matilda could stay with her for a while._

“Thanks. I’ll come back to you, ok?” 

“Anytime, sir.” 

—- 

Running is good. It is perfect actually. Jacobson has picked a secluded hiking path close the sea. Getting out of the house is good. Smelling the salty breeze from the sea, feeling the soft ground under his feet, the wind in his face. 

John is running too fast in the beginning, he hasn’t been doing any kind of exercise in ages. Jacobson is, of course, well-trained. She doesn’t even start sweating when John already feels like a red-faced mess. He focuses on running and breathing. After a while he finds a pace he can handle - even if it is an embarrassingly slow one. 

Twenty minutes after they have left the car, they pause and John looks at the sea beneath them, trying to catch his breath. He feels a little more alive again, a little less tense. Definitely less trapped. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To keep the nerve-grating frustration at bay, Sherlock also occupies himself with re-checking all the information on Mary and Sokół. He tries to find the flaws in Sokół’s network, the first chink in the armour. Meanwhile Novak makes his way into the criminal organisation. It would be a fascinating case if it wasn’t Sherlock's own life.

The bleak November days pass. Sherlock attends all kinds of meetings that have to do with the further planning of the mission. Together with Mycroft he has mapped out various scenarios which now need further elaboration. While he finds the organisational and logistical questions rather tedious, he is grateful to keep his mind busy. There have been infuriatingly little news from Novak so far. Yes, Novak has been taken to the headquarters, the London offshoot of a large Belarusian logistics company. It is called Valadsko TransBelarus Ltd., situated in Stratford in East London. No, he hadn’t met Sokół yet. Yes, there would be a meeting with some higher-ups next week. 

To keep the nerve-grating frustration at bay, Sherlock also occupies himself with re-checking all the information on Mary and Sokół. He tries to find the flaws in Sokół’s network, the first chink in the armour. Meanwhile Novak makes his way into the criminal organisation. It would be a fascinating case if it wasn’t his own life. 

When he is finishing watching some video footage from the Polish prison Sokół was kept in, he hears a knock on the door of Mycroft’s office. 

“Mycroft isn’t here, but do come in,” Sherlock answers distractedly. 

“Yeah, he told me so.” Lestrade enters the room with a package under his arm. “He said I’d meet you here. Usually doesn’t mean anything good if the two of you are working together. What are you doing here, then?” 

Sherlock is surprised. He hasn’t seen Lestrade since before Matilda was in hospital. He hadn’t even called him when… all of this started. 

“Working. And you?” 

“Your brother asked me for several files on a logistics company called Valadsko. There has been some cigarette smuggling over the past years. And maybe more. We had been working together with customs investigation, but they couldn’t prove it.” Greg pauses. “What is this Valadsko business all about?” 

“I’ll tell you what happened.” 

Twenty minutes later, they are standing on the Vauxhall Cross side of Mycroft’s office building. They are smoking and there are a number of cigarette stubs on the ground in front of them. Telling what has happened has taken longer than one cigarette. Greg exhales. The smoke vanishes in the air and he sighs, “Christ, Sherlock. That’s a mess.” 

“Well. Yes.” 

“Can I tell Molly? She’s been asking a couple of times since she didn’t hear anything from you in a while.” 

“Yes. But no details.” 

“Sure. How’s John doing then, in that safe house? And the little one?” 

“Quite alright, given the circumstances. We are still trying to find out if Sokół is after them.” 

Before Sherlock can add anything, his phone makes a text alert noise. 

_I see you are smoking with DI Lestrade. Please come to my office. –MH_

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but types a quick _Coming. –SH_ in reply. They get back to the office, where Mycroft awaits them. 

“Greg. How very nice to see you.” 

_Since when does Mycroft call Lestrade ‘Greg’?_ Sherlock furrows his brows. 

Greg nods, and Mycroft continues. 

“As my brother will have informed you, we are currently trying to locate a Polish criminal called Sokół. We have proof that Sokół intends to become Moriarty’s successor. Additionally, we believe that he is planning an attack on London for the end of this year. He might be connected with an Eastern European logistics company called Valadsko TransBelarus Ltd. They have an offshoot in London. I was informed that there have been attempts to charge Valadsko because of cigarette smuggling. For the unlikely case it will take too long to uncover the details of Sokół’s attack, we should try to arrest Sokół in connection with a minor crime like that. Greg, you will be joining us for the duration of this mission. You will conduct the investigation of Valadsko TransBelarus Ltd. Other fields - Sokół’s contacts in the UK, Poland and Russia, general terrorist activities in Greater London etc. - will be investigated by our team, Sherlock and me.” 

“Well, yes, but… what do the guys from Customs Investigation say? So far it’s been their case.” 

“I have just had a telephone call with your superiors. And with Customs Investigation.” 

Lestrade raises his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, Mycroft. In that case. Well.” 

“You will report to me and attend our meetings. Work from where you deem it better. See you tomorrow at nine in conference room three, Detective Inspector.” 

\--- 

With the investigation of Valadsko on top of the other work, Sherlock is more than busy. After a few days of attempting to work from his office at the Yard, Lestrade has his files and material transferred to the office next to Mycroft’s. Sherlock is secretly glad about this. Lestrade might not compare to John, but Sherlock likes working with him, after all. 

Later that week, Mycroft joins Sherlock and Greg in their office to go through some details. The walls look like 221b mid-case: covered with photographs, sheets of paper and any kind of information that might prove valuable. The obligatory map of London with its pins, and notes scrawled in Sherlock’s handwriting right across it. 

Mycroft’s phone rings. 

“Our Warsaw agent,” he says and taps at the screen. 

“Yes?” A pause, Mycroft listens. “I see. Is there any proof for that?” The agent on the other side is speaking for a few moments and then Mycroft says, “Very well. I shall expect a full report tonight. Thank you.” 

He puts the phone back in the pocket of his jacket and looks at Sherlock and Greg. 

“Our man in Warsaw has heard hints about the big operation. Sokół is pulling his forces together in the UK. He seems to be busy planning and preparing. And there are rumours that the City of London might be a possible target.” 

“The financial district,” Sherlock says, “the heart of the nation when it comes to its economy. Or what is left of it.” 

“Yes. Sherlock, do you remember two men called Ryś and Wilk?” 

Sherlock does. These two used to be closest to Sokół when Sherlock was in Poland. After things had gotten slightly out of control back then, they had been pissed off when he deduced a bit too much about them. He is almost sure his kidneys ache at the thought of this, as if they remember the beating that followed. He nods. 

“Apparently, Ryś has now been transferred to London while Wilk remains in charge of Sokół's base in Warsaw.” 

“Ok, but what does that mean?” Greg asks. 

“It means that whatever Sokół is planning, it isn’t just a rumour or a suspicion anymore. Sokół is shifting the centre of his activities to London, including his most important men,” Sherlock snaps. He has gotten up from his chair and starts pacing the office. “An attack on the city… It has already lost a considerable amount of its influence over the course of Brexit. Yet it still houses some of the most important British and international banks. Many of the vacant offices have been occupied by companies. They're using the illustrious address to maintain the impression of strength and power.” 

“So? What is he trying to attack? The economy? Or is this a political thing?” 

“I have no idea.” Sherlock stops in front of the map. “I need more data.” 

“Our agent will send a complete report tonight. I have some business to attend to now, but let’s meet at my place tonight and go through the report. Greg, I would be most grateful if you joined us.” 

Greg looks at Mycroft for a moment. When he nods, Mycroft gets up and walks to the door. 

“I’ll send a car.” 

“Do that,” Sherlock mumbles, lost in thought, not even turning to Mycroft when he leaves the office. 

—- 

Although they discuss the agent’s report until late that night, it doesn’t provide them with much more information. But there are news from Novak that turn out to be more useful. He confirms that Ryś is in London. Novak is part of Ryś's team now, assigned to some illegal logistics including weapons. 

Ryś proves to be exactly the way Sherlock remembers him: Novak’s photographs show a man in his mid-thirties, broad as a truck, with a shaved head. Novak reports that he is cunning and knows his trade, but he talks too much for his own good. Ruthless, but keen on impressing others. Successful, very efficient, and increasingly careless. Whatever Sokół is planning, it is apparently getting to Ryś’s head. Ryś is their main source of information, since he can't even shut up to the eager new man Sokół has recruited. Especially not to him. 

It is way past midnight when Greg gets up, yawning. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not much of a help anymore. I’ll get a cab and get some sleep.” 

Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock reacts, they are reading Ryś’s criminal records. 

_In goddamn Polish,_ Greg thinks, exasperated. 

“Hey. I’m leaving. I’m falling asleep.” 

“The second guest room is up the stairs, third door to the left. Everything is prepared,” Mycroft says absently, waving a hand in the direction of the door. Sherlock doesn’t even pay attention. 

“Ah - well. Ok. Good night, then.” 

Mycroft and Sherlock are increasingly worried by Novak's reports. Sokół has made considerable progress since Sherlock had last encountered him, even since Mary was in contact. He has managed to become the most dangerous man in Eastern Europe, in all of Europe, possibly. He even has found a way to arrange an agreement with the Russian Mafia and thus held it at bay in Poland. On his way up, Sokół has become much more cautious than Sherlock remembers him. He trusts very few people. Novak isn’t allowed anywhere near him, and the Warsaw agent confirms that Sokół had him checked again and again. At the same time, Sokół's hunger for power apparently has grown into something more. He seems to enjoy it now, the crimes, the planning and plotting and killing. The assignments and collaborations, the assassinations and forcing people into doing what he wants them to do. A worthy successor for Moriarty indeed. 

“There are no news on the question whether Sokół knows about John and his daughter,” Mycorft says, stating the obvious, as he closes his laptop after reading the Novak’s last report. Greg has gone to bed two hours ago, the fire in the fireplace has died down and the room is getting chilly. Sherlock wishes he had brought one of his dressing gowns. 

“No, I wasn’t expecting that at this stage of the operation. Novak is not in the position to be trusted with information like that. Not yet.” 

“And how are we feeling about that, brother dear?” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but stares at the paper he is reading. 

“Their safety my topmost priority, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock puts the paper on the low table and gets up from his chair. He has finished reading the files and he doesn’t like what he has learned. He can’t connect the bits of information, he can’t solve the puzzle, he can’t make sure that John and Matilda are safe. He needs a cigarette. 

He looks at Mycroft, who is still sitting in his chair, looking tired. Mycroft’s shirt is crumpled, but still he almost manages to appear calm and collected. Almost. Sherlock senses a tension that has last been there when Mycroft put him to rehab all those years ago. 

“Get some sleep, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, taking two slow steps towards the door. He pats the back of Mycroft’s chair when passes him by, the closest thing to voluntarily touching his brother since Sherlock has left his parents’ home for boarding school. 

\--- 

John is taking a shower. He woke early that morning and went running with Jacobson. She doesn’t only change the routes every time, but also takes him out at different times of the day to make sure there is no recognizable pattern when John leaves the safe house. The shower feels good. He stays in the spray of hot water for ages. His muscles ache a bit from overexertion, but it is getting better every time they run. 

Today was the first time that he got to that point where his legs seemed to move on their own account. Until now, he had to push himself to keep running. To go on despite the fact that his legs just felt too tired for this, his body too heavy and his lungs too small. Now the lightness is back, at least at some point. He is secretly looking forward to the runner’s high. 

He has gotten dressed and Margaret brought Matilda back to him. She was at Sherlock’s parents, having breakfast with them while John was out. Margaret told him that Marcus had put on that violin CD again. Matilda was excited about it. 

John’s phone buzzes. 

_Sorry I didn’t call last night. Busy. -SH_

_I figured. What’s up? -John_

_We discussed some reports after hours at Mycroft’s. -SH_

_I see. Any success? -John_

_Far too little. -SH_

_Hey. You’ve got a minute now? -John_

Instead of sending another text, Sherlock calls. 

“Good morning, Sherlock.” 

“Hello, John. How are you?” 

“Well - a bit better, actually. I was running. Where are you?” 

“On my way to Stratford. Greg and I want to have a look at something.” 

“Ah, ok.” 

“What did you want, John?” 

“It’s… Matilda wants to tell you something.” 

“Oh? Hand her the phone.” 

John does. She smiles. 

“Hey, love, there’s pa on the phone. Sherlock,” John whispers as she presses the phone to her ear. 

“Hello, Matilda.” 

She beams at John at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. 

“Come on, Matilda. What did you say earlier? What did you say, love? Who’s on the phone?” John asks. 

Matilda giggles. And then she says it, sparkling with laughter, _“Sh’lock!”_

“Oh bumble! That was… amazing! Yes! Sherlock! That’s me, love.” 

John can hear the excitement and the pride in Sherlock’s voice. Matilda replies with a few more _Sh’locks_ until she wriggles her small head away from the phone. Obviously she is needed elsewhere. 

“John, she is a genius. She’s not even two,” Sherlock muses when John is back on the phone. 

“Girls are quicker with speaking. Thought you’d like it.” 

“I do.” 

They both fall silent. Suddenly the easy laughter is gone. John can hear the engine of the car Sherlock and Greg are sitting in. And the safe house feels entirely too silent, despite Matilda’s rummaging with her toys. He misses Sherlock. 

“I miss you, too, John,” Sherlock says with a low voice after a moment. “But… we’ve arrived. I’ve got to go now.” 

“Yeah, sure. Take care. We’ll talk later?” 

“We will.” 

“Tell me what you’ve found out. And say hi to Greg.” 

“I will. Bye, John.” 

Before John can reply, the car stops and Sherlock ends the call. 

\--- 

Sometimes, at night, thoughts about Mary keep creeping into John’s mind. This is one of those nights. He has been lying in his bed for a while now, staring at the ceiling. Ever since she had been arrested after Matilda’s birth, he had done his best to suppress any emotions about her. Now he doesn’t feel anything but emptiness. 

_Did she miss Matilda? Did she wonder what her daughter looked like? Did she ask for pictures of her or anything?_

He wonders what personal possessions she has had in prison. It might have helped him understand, he thought. He still doesn’t understand her. He doesn’t know where to draw the line between her truths and her lies. Where the woman who might or might not have loved him ended and where the assassin, the liar began. The more he thinks about it, the more he is convinced he is never going to find an answer to any of these questions. 

It took him years to somewhat forgive his parents, even after they had died. He couldn’t let go of the old grudges he had held since he had been a teenager. It had consumed way too much of his energy and yet driven him to excel at many things he did. 

When he had thought Sherlock dead it had been different. He had been angry, but most of all, he had been hurt in a way he never would have thought possible. He had mourned him. 

_Well, of course I did. There never was a point of time when I did not love him._

He mourns Mary, too, somehow. In a very different way. 

Because presumably no one else does. 

He decides to stop bothering. To stop being angry. At some point of time, when Matilda grows up, she will ask about her mother. 

Several times, probably. And she will always deserve to be taken seriously in her wish to understand who her mother was. 

_Even if I can't figure it out myself. And even if the answers will have to adapt to Matilda’s age and the amount of truth she might be able to take._

He has no clue if and when it might be the right time to tell a girl that her mother had been an assassin. And he is glad he won't have to make up his mind about this for a long time. But he wants to be able to tell Matilda about Mary without anger in his voice, without bitterness or hatred. And he won’t allow Mary to cling to a piece of his heart and turn it into something icy with loathing. And so he decides to stop holding a grudge against her. The night he makes that decision is three weeks after he was told she was dead. 

_But it still is a fucking long way from here._

\--- 

“John.” 

Margaret is leaning against the kitchen’s door frame. 

“John, Matilda has to go out.” 

He goes on putting his cup, his plate and Matilda’s bowl into the dishwasher. They have just had lunch and she is in bed for her nap. Having a nap sounds like a good idea to John. He has been lying awake much too long last night, pondering over Mary. 

But Margaret is here. He briefly considers not to reply at all, because what is he supposed to say? But she is Sherlock’s mum. 

_She just wants to help._

“You’re probably right. But Mycroft has been very clear about that. Best to stay inside the house.” 

“Yes, I know. But Mycroft has never tried caging up a child inside a house for several weeks.” 

He thinks of how Mycroft interacts with Matilda. John is quite sure he likes her - or he feels somehow responsible for her well-being, which might be the same thing when it comes to Mycroft Holmes. But usually he appears to be a little bit scared of her. As if she was some alien species that doesn’t quite respond to his well-mannered diplomacy. 

“No, I guess he doesn’t.” 

“I mean it, John. The girl has to go outside. Get some fresh air, see something different. And play! I thought she could go with Marcus and me. We could take that young security officer of yours.” 

“I’m not sure. I should be joining you.” 

“And attract attention, in case you’re being watched? It is much easier to spot and identify a grown man instead of a small child.” 

He can’t really argue with that. 

“Listen, John, whatever Mycroft says, it can’t go on like this. You’re both getting mad. We’ll wrap her in her warm coat, scarf and hat. And nobody will recognize her. That officer will pose as her mum. It will look like a family having a walk to the playground. Not here, of course. We’ll go to Chichester or Bognor Regis or somewhere else. And Mycroft can have as much security personnel around as he pleases.” 

_She might have a point,_ John has to admit. Despite her progress at speaking Matilda’s mood hasn’t improved at all, she is bored and crotchety. And this isn’t good for any of them, it is a vicious circle of bad mood and impatience. 

_But is it worth risking her safety?_

“You haven’t talked to Mycroft about this, have you?” 

“No. This is your decision, John.” 

“Give me some time to think about it, ok?” 

\--- 

“Matilda, love. Come here,” her dad says. 

Matilda looks up from her toys. Dad is smiling at her. 

“Hey, Matilda. Sweetheart. What’s up? Come here.” 

Matilda furrows her brows. She doesn’t move. 

“Hey. I can read you a book. Let’s see… how about this one, you like it. It’s about a bee. Pa has bought it for you. Sherlock.” 

“Sh’lock!” Matilda proclaims. _Yes, Sherlock. Pa. Pa isn’t here._

Matilda takes her stuffed Bee in her arms, holding on to it. Everything feels wrong here. _This house is no good._

Her dad is getting up from where he sits on the floor in her room. She can’t quite remember when he last sat in her room like that. Without his phone lying next to him. He spends a lot of time with her. He sometimes plays with her. But he doesn’t like it. 

_Dad doesn’t like anything here. This house is no good for dad either._

He lifts her up and looks at her. It has been a while since he has really looked at her. Dad’s eyes are big and dark and the most beautiful thing Matilda can think of. He presses her against his chest and holds her for a long moment. He smells good. He smells like dad and comfort and _home_. Being held like this feels like home. Tears prickle in her eyes and there is a big lump of sadness in her throat. She sobs. 

“Matilda, love, shhhh,” her dad soothes. “Love, what is it?” 

She clings to his neck. The sadness is so big it hurts. There are a few more sobs. 

“Tell me, love. What’s wrong? Does something hurt? Are you ok?” 

He puts his hand on her forehead. Which is difficult, because she buries her head in his shoulder. 

“No fever. Matilda. Hey. Tell me. What’s wrong?” 

_Everything is wrong. Dad is wrong. Dad isn’t happy. Pa isn’t here. Maybe that’s why Dad isn’t happy. He is never this unhappy at home. Home. Oh, home._

“Ho,” she tries. 

“What did you say? Matilda? Say it again, please.” His voice is soft and kind and patient. 

“Home,” she mumbles against his skin. 

“Home. Do you miss home, love?” His voice is low, right next to her ear. She nods. “I miss home, too. So very much.” 

“Sh’lock,” she adds, because she can’t tell dad she is missing home and forget about pa. 

“Yes, I miss him, too.” Dad’s voice is barely more than a whisper. 

After a moment, he takes a deep breath. His chest moves up and down and it takes her up and down as well. Dad feels like a wave. 

“But I’ve got you here, little love. And you’ve got me. And before long we’ll go home and pa will be there.” 

She doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. She just stays there, hidden in her dad’s hug. 

“We might give him a good long cuddle. We could have breakfast in bed, Matilda. What do you think? We don’t let him get up until he has finished his toast. Even if he doesn’t like it.” 

Matilda’s mouth curls at the thought of this. 

_Pa and dad in bed in the morning. That is good. That is very good._

Sometimes one of them would come and get her when she is awake in the morning. Mostly pa does. He would fetch a few of her books as well. And then they would cuddle into dad’s and pa’s bed. Pa would read her books to her, while dad would still be sleeping next to her. When they would have finished all her books, she would play with pa for a while. He would let her fly on her hands. Sometimes he would let her land on dad’s chest and she would tickle him until he is awake. “We’re hungry, John,” pa would say then. And dad would kiss her head and kiss pa, too, and grumble something and then go to the kitchen. There he would make tea and a large plate full of toast. And then they would eat toast - in bed. 

_That is very good._

Dad and pa would make jokes then, about pa having to finish his toast because he can’t leave the bed before he has finished his toast. Pa would protest, of course, because it is no fun if he doesn’t protest. Then Matilda would sit on his stomach and feed him her toast. Finishing her toast is ok as well. 

She loves that. And because she loves that, she has to giggle. 

“That’s exactly what we’ll do, love. Feed him toast and cuddle him, right?” 

Matilda nods. She has lifted her head from dad’s shoulder and looks at him. He is smiling. She smiles as well. She forgets about this house for a moment. 

He hugs her tightly, again. 

“Matilda, love, I’m so sorry. I know things aren’t easy. I know you miss home. And pa. But we can do this, alright?” 

She looks at him. She has got the feeling that she doesn’t understand everything he is talking about, but that is ok. If dad says they can do this, they can. 

“I’m a crap dad sometimes, love. I am… far too impatient with you. You aren’t doing anything wrong, you know that? It’s just that… things are difficult. I love you, Matilda. I’d have gone mad if it wasn’t for you.” 

Dad doesn’t smile anymore and he sounds a bit worried. But then his face brightens and he says, “Maybe you can go out tomorrow. With grandma and grandpa. Maybe they’ll take you to a playground. What do you think?” 

Matilda smiles. She knows playgrounds from home. Playgrounds are fun. 

“Then let’s talk to pa and find out what he thinks about it.” 

\--- 

John talks to Sherlock. Who is as worried about this idea as John is. Who then has to think of Matilda and that feeling of being caged. Who agrees at last. 

John talks to Mycroft. Who listens. Who opens a drawer in what John considers to be his mind office’s desk and comes up with a plan within ten seconds. Who calls some of his minions and makes it possible in the end. 

The day Margaret, Marcus, Matilda and Lieutenant Jacobson go out is a crisp, sunny Thursday afternoon. They leave after lunch, so Matilda can have a nap in the car. Sherlock’s parents drive to the playground in Chichester a bit earlier in their own car, so the four of them won’t be spotted leaving together. Matilda is sitting on Lieutenant Jacobson’s arm and grins at John from under the woollen hat Margaret has knitted for her. Although both Reid and Jacobson try to keep out of their daily lives as much as possible, Matilda knows the two of them well by now. 

“It will be ok, Dr Watson. I’ll take care of Matilda. And Mr Holmes has sent two extra men from London to surveil the area,” Jacobson says, standing at the front door, ready to go. 

“I know. Thanks.” 

“We will be back at 16:30. I will give you a call when we leave the playground. We should be back here 40 minutes later.” 

“Ok.” 

He sighs. It is difficult to let them go. Although this whole small trip has been planned and mapped out. Although there are two armed officers on standby in a car, checking the small playground and the streets around for anything unusual. He finally kisses Matilda good-bye. 

“Matilda, love, have fun.” 

She giggles and waves at him as they leave. The door falls shut behind them. 

John watches the car drive away from behind closed curtains. He tries to ignore the tension nagging at him and sits down at the table and opens his laptop. He has made sure he will have plenty of work to do during the three hours that Matilda, Sherlock’s parents and Jacobson are gone. There are reports from Mycroft, some files from Sherlock and Lestrade. Maybe he will write down one of their last cases for the blog. 

He opens a PDF file on some smuggling of the Belarusian company Sherlock has told him about the day before. For the next forty minutes he reads old reports from customs investigation. 

After having a glass of water, he goes on reading some more files. He even finishes writing a first draft of the case they had solved a few days before Matilda fell down the stairs. He manages to ignore the clock on his laptop and sends only one text to Jacobson. 

_Everything alright? -JHW_

_Yes. We have arrived at the playground 50 mins ago. Everything under control. Matilda, Mr and Mrs Holmes are enjoying themselves. - Lt Jacobson_

With Matilda and the Holmes parents being accompanied by Lieutenant Jacobson, he can’t go running today. Which is a shame, he really could have used the distraction. He stares at the screen of his laptop. 

He knows that it isn’t doing them any good if Matilda stays indoors all the time. After all, Sherlock and Mycroft had agreed to it and arranged for maximum safety. Most of the time he succeeds in not thinking about the danger they might actually be in. He avoids all thoughts about any of them being harmed. He tries to detach it from the three of them, treat the whole thing as if it was a case and someone else’s life. And mostly it works. At least throughout the days. 

The screen of his laptop goes black and he doesn’t notice. He is still holding his phone in his hand. 

He has never been afraid of danger. When he had joined the army, he had found it fascinating. It came with the service he had chosen and it had given him a purpose. Back in London, wounded and broken, he missed it. While he had tried to pass the days in his miserable bedsit the gun that he hadn’t been supposed to keep had posed a different kind of danger. Maybe he would have given in to this eventually and made those bleak days end for good. 

Instead, he had met Mike Stamford. He had met Sherlock. And the life Sherlock had drawn him into was full of danger. The best kind of danger. With the most amazing man at his side to face it. A man that brought out the very danger luring inside John. A man to kill for. 

Sherlock had changed everything. And when Sherlock died, Mary changed everything. He wanted her to change everything. To ease his pain, to save him from the danger he yearned for. But he had been unaware of her own special kind of danger. Then Sherlock came back and he finally tried to make up for it. 

And then there was Matilda. And danger meant, once more, something completely different. Something new. Something he was afraid of, that had the potential to threaten him, for the first time in his life. He was responsible for a child now. For a small human being that relied on him in more ways than he ever could have imagined. 

She needed to be fed and cared for and protected. At which he failed. Sometimes on a smaller scale, like when she fell down the stairs. Sometimes on a larger scale, like this. But he finds no answer to the question how he could have protected her from this. It scares him more than he would like to admit. He mustn’t fail at this. Matilda needs him, and she needs him alive. 

He has to be there for her. He has to make sure they make it through this together. Margaret was right in saying that it was too dangerous if he joint them on their little trip. If Sokół’s killers are out there and trying to get them, he is the more obvious target. _I have to be even more careful about the running._

He tries to wipe the scenario of him being killed from his mind. But it is relentless, it stays. And so he tries to look at it. Mary has _\- thank God? -_ no living relatives. On his side, there is only Harry. Whereas Harry is doing well - not drinking, with Melinda, definitely caring about Matilda - she wouldn’t be the person he would want to take care of Matilda. 

_That would be… Sherlock. Who has no legal right to do so. Fuck. Why haven’t I given this a single thought so far? Why hasn’t anyone?_

He hesitates for a moment, trying to think this through. He finally calls Sherlock. 

“John?” 

“Hey Sherlock. Listen, there’s something that has, well, just come my mind. About Matilda.” 

“What is it?” 

He takes a deep breath. 

“Listen, if I get harmed in this whole thing, she’d… Harry is my only relative. Harry’s fine and she loves Matilda, but she’s a recovering alcoholic and has been through some pretty bad times. I want you to be the one who will take care of Matilda in that case. In case I can’t.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say a word. John is sure that he is blinking in an attempt to process this. 

“Sherlock. I know we haven’t talked about this yet…” 

“And I would be better at that? I’m an addict. Who has been through some pretty bad times as well. I think you’ve been around last time.” 

“I want you to be the one who will take custody of her. You. No one else.” 

Sherlock remains silent. 

“I can’t think of anyone who’d take better care of her than you would, Sherlock. There is no one she has such a strong bond with. No one who loves her as much as you do.” 

John hears noises in the background, a door opens, there are voices, talking. 

“Right… Sherlock, we can talk later if you want. I didn’t even ask if you’ve got a moment for this.” 

“No, it’s alright.” 

”I’m sorry, I got a little carried away with Matilda gone and everything-” 

“I’ll do it, John. That is what I have promised, after all.” 

“What?” 

“At your wedding.” 

The words hang heavily between them. _Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you._

“Of course. I know.” 

“I’ll ask Mycroft to prepare the papers.” 

“That’s… Yeah. Thanks.” 

The talking and the background noise subside. 

“John. I love you.” 

John has to bite his lips and take a deep breath before he can answer. 

“I love you, too, Sherlock.” 

“I know. I’ll call you tonight.” 

“Yeah. Take care.” 

They end the call. 

They don’t go for casual declarations of love. They do say it, occasionally, but it always feels important, precious, sacred. John has never had the slightest doubt about Sherlock’s love. But when he says it, when Sherlock says that he loves him, it never fails to touch him. Profoundly. He hopes that Sherlock knows this, too, that he always knows how much John loves him. 

Going out turns out to be a success. When Matilda comes back, she is tired. Her cheeks are reddened by the cool winter air and she is exceptionally delighted. She is babbling, telling John about her adventures in her own language, until she almost falls asleep at the dinner table at Sherlock’s parents. They loved the trip as well, not getting tired recounting how often she wanted to swing and play tag with Marcus. Finally Mycroft, Captain Reid and Lieutenant Jacobson agree that the safety risk was manageable. And John is secretly thankful because it finally made him understand a few things. 

_If we make it through this (which we will, damn it, Watson), I will do it. I will ask him._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's shirt is damp with sweat and sticking to his skin. He sits in his bed, breathing hard and fighting nausea. He feels for his phone, finally finds it and taps away the keyboard locking. The display is too bright in the darkness of his bedroom, but it is real, it is _now_ , it has nothing to do with Afghanistan. He dials.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for graphic depictions of violence and war. And heartbreak.
> 
> \---
> 
> I keep rearranging the plot and things keep coming up that need to be written. Ergo: Fifteen chapters now.

“Nooo—!” 

John wakes and he doesn’t know if his screaming was real or a dream. He is gasping for breath, surprised that the air lacks the foul smell of burnt flesh and the taste of sand. It is dark in his bedroom at the safe house. The silence is deafening after the thunder of detonations he has just heard. His ears are still thudding. It almost sounds like a fire crackling, like the fire that was always there after the explosions. Even in the Afghan wasteland where there wasn’t _anything_ but rocks and sand. And bodies. It was the bodies that burnt, the clothes, the debris of vehicles. 

His shirt is damp with sweat and sticking to his skin. He sits in his bed, breathing hard and fighting nausea. He feels for his phone, finally finds it and taps away the keyboard locking. The display is too bright in the darkness of his bedroom, but it is real, it is _now_ , it has nothing to do with Afghanistan. He dials. 

\--- 

**John, 2009.**

It happened during John’s third year in Afghanistan. In his first year, 2007, he was stationed for a few weeks in the madness that was Kabul. Then he was ordered to Camp Bastion in the Helmand Province. Camp Bastion was the largest British base in Afghanistan. It was a regular city, made of tents. There were thousands of soldiers, there was an airport that felt busier than Heathrow, a large hospital, everything. A world of its own and, just like Kabul, a place beyond comparison to normal life. 

In summer 2007 a smaller camp closer to the mountains was built up, meant to secure peace in the area around. John volunteered for this mission. He was part of the medical team. The work at the hospital at Camp Bastion was interesting, but it felt too much like the military hospital he had been working at in England. Too much like a real hospital in the middle of the desert. He wanted to get closer to the troops, closer to where things were really happening. Closer to danger, maybe. 

The new camp was what people would imagine Afghanistan to be like: bleak land, a merciless sun that burnt the skin and clear, starlit nights. Women trapped in bright blue burqas contrasting the yellow-grey landscape. The rough, majestic mountains. The poverty of the people, the harshness and the brutality of their everyday life was so tangible it almost hurt. Even the children looked aged. Often enough it was difficult to tell the difference between villagers and Taliban. They looked all the same to John. He knew he would never be able to understand this country. 

Major James Sholto was John’s commanding officer. He was an outstanding commander, calm and focused and devoted to duty. John was impressed by his loyalty to the men who served under him. Sholto was fair. He listened when his men had something to say. He was respected and his men were as loyal to him as he was to them. 

They talked one night, sitting in front of the tents. Sholto wanted to hear John’s opinion on the mission they had been on during the last days. He wanted to know how John’s work was going. 

The region they were in wasn’t very stable, there were attacks and fights. It was hard work. John had seen many injuries here, bad ones, even. He could help those with light injuries. He stitched the bad cases up enough to be sent to the hospital at Camp Bastion. Sometimes, there was nothing he could do but witnessing those soldiers with the worst injuries die, easing their pain until they had made it. 

He had a good team of medics and nurses. He liked his job. And he was good at it, he had a purpose. Sholto listened to him. And so they talked more often. 

Weeks passed and they met again, a few times. Before John could realize it, he found himself looking forward to talking to Sholto. 

“You have a wife back in England? Family?” John asked one night. 

“The army is all there ever was for me,” Sholto replied, staring into the mountains. “My family has been in the army for generations. My great-great-grandfather fought in Kandahar, in 1880,” he added. He was still gazing into the distance. “It is an honour for me to serve in the same place he did.” 

Sholto gradually opened up and John could see a gentleness hidden beneath his military posture. Something boyish that he wouldn’t have expected. Sholto looked younger then, when he smiled. He smiled more and more during these night talks. After the first year, John started seeing him as him a friend. 

It was John’s second year at the camp when Sholto gave him a small bottle of Scotch as a birthday gift. John insisted they drink together. They ended up calling each other by their first names. John had a faint feeling they might be crossing a line. 

Their friendship grew deeper, they met rather regularly in James’s tent. Discussing the past days and the days to come. John told him about the troubles with his sister Harry. James listened. 

James usually was very guarded when it came to talking about their friendship. But he made a hint that he felt understood by John. They grew closer. John wondered if this was getting too close for an army doctor and his commanding officer. 

He caught himself watching James. Watching. _Him_. He saw the beauty in James, his physical beauty and the beauty of his mind. His long light lashes. The way James looked at him through these lashes sent a wave of goosebumps down John’s skin. John caught himself wanting to touch him. 

One of those evenings John was back on his way to his own tent. He heard some other men murmuring in the darkness of their quarters. John was sharing a tent with Bill Murray, a nurse from his team. They had met back at Camp Bastion. They worked well together and John was happy that Murray had been assigned to the new camp as well. He was his best mate here, the kind of friend John could have a beer with after hours and make jokes. He spent a lot of his free time with Murray. And yet thoughts of James occupied John all the time. 

Murray was sleeping when John came back. He undressed silently. When he lay on his camp bed, images of James flickered through his mind. He had tried to ignore it for a long time. He wanted to be close to James, no matter what anyone would think of it. He wanted to be the one who understood him. And he wanted to kiss him. 

From this night on, there was no going back. Whenever he met James, he felt his heart beating in his chest. Nothing really changed - they met a few times a week, if they could spare the time. They talked. Or sat together in silence. 

Being with James became more thrilling. The possibility of something more was hovering above them. He had no idea how James felt. And if he did feel anything for John, how far he would be willing to take it. The army definitely _was_ everything for James, John could see that. 

It had been allowed to be openly gay in the army for a few years then. The army had even started to promote good working conditions for queers. But it was something completely different to take the step and come out. Especially if you were in a relationship with your commanding officer. Or with a subordinate. Harassment was being persecuted, but it still happened, John figured. 

John gave it a lot of thought. And ended up with the conclusion that if any man was worth going through this, it might be James. He grew accustomed to the idea that he might be in love. 

In 2009, John’s third year, things became more difficult in Afghanistan. There were more suicide bombers, the whole province became instable. The area around the camp was still comparatively calm, but they did everything to be prepared. In the first week of March they had word from a few villagers that there was an abandoned Taliban camp only a few miles from away, way up in the mountains. James decided to take a team of crows out there to check the situation. Although the possible Taliban camp would probably prove to be the site where a few shepherds or smugglers had stayed for a couple of nights and lit their camp fires. 

John couldn’t sleep the night before the operation. He got up from his bed and slid back into his uniform. 

“You’re going out?” Bill asked. He was still awake, reading something on his bed. 

“Yeah, can’t sleep. Get some fresh air.” 

He went over to James’s tent, knowing full well that _this_ was definitely crossing a line. His heart was beating like mad. But there was no other place he wanted to go to, no other person he wanted to be with right now but James. 

“James?” he said in a low voice, standing so close to the tent he almost touched it with his face. 

There was no reply, but James opened the entry. There was no light and John could hardly see anything in the darkness of the tent. He rather sensed James being close to him than he saw it. He heard him breathing and turned to where he felt he might be. _James,_ he thought, _James._

John’s eyes got used to the darkness and he could see him after a moment, his body in the greyness. James was half undressed, shirt off. John had never seen him bare-chested. He swallowed. They moved closer to each other, so close. They touched, he felt James’s warm skin. They didn’t talk. James’s hand was on John’s face, guiding it towards him. 

The kiss made John lose everything. He was dimly shocked by _how_ much he felt for James, how much he wanted him. He kissed him hard and felt James moan into his mouth. 

“Need you so much, I’ve been wanting you so much,” John panted against James’ neck a few minutes later, breaking the kiss. 

“Don’t,” James said, putting a finger over John’s lips, “don’t.” 

Then he kissed John again, gently, yet relentless, demanding. They tried to make as little noises as possible. They shimmied out of their boots, undid the buttons of John’s shirt, opened the buckles of their belts and let their army trousers glide to the ground. 

John felt the hair on James’s chest and on his belly, the muscles in his arms. He smelled him and heard him and felt him. He felt James’s erect cock against his stomach. He wanted him so badly, it was going to drive him insane. They made it into James’s bed, which was too narrow for two grown men, but it didn’t matter. 

“Take these off,” James whispered, starting to pull down John’s pants. John did and watched James getting rid of his own. They were lying on the bed, naked. He touched James’s cock, so impatient to feel him. To watch him getting as lost as John was. 

James stilled at John’s touch, leaned his forehand against John’s and inhaled sharply. He closed his eyes. And then he began to thrust into John’s hand. 

John bit down a moan and kissed James’s neck instead, wet and messy. He sucked in his skin and tasted it. He dug his teeth into his neck as James sped up his thrusts. When he felt James’s hand around his own cock, he desperately groaned against his skin. He moved his hips, seeking for friction. James began to work John’s cock. He gave him long, firm strokes that met John’s thrusts. 

There was nothing but their mingled panting in the semi-darkness of James’s tent for long minutes. The sound of wet skin and sheets and their hands gliding over each other’s bodies. James’s touch was so much like James himself, firm and tender at the same time, and yearning. It made John’s heart ache. 

John was getting close. James must have felt it, because he kissed him again, sealing John’s mouth with his lips and his tongue. When John came, it was so intense, he would have shouted James’s name into the night. He fucked into James’s hand, hard and fast, and it was perfect, it was everything. James didn’t let go of him as he spurted two, three, four times, covering their bellies with his semen. 

John was still trying to catch his breath, when he felt James thrust harder into his hand. His movements grew more and more erratic and with a groan stifled against John’s lips, he was pushed over the edge. 

James kissed him afterwards, he touched him and poured so much into these touches. John wanted to fall asleep in his arms. But after a while James sat up, took a towel and cleaned John up. 

“You need to go to your quarters,” he whispered. 

John knew it was the right thing to do, but it felt utterly wrong. There were so many questions on John’s mind. So many things that he wanted to say, but they were left unspoken that night. 

_I want to see you again. Can I see you again? Can I come back tomorrow?_

John wanted to try this, other than he had fifteen years ago with Rob. James gently pushed him away, made him get up from his bed. John thought that he could see something like understanding in his eyes, as if James knew what kind of things were on John’s mind. 

“This is not the night to talk,” James whispered. “Go now.” He kissed him again. 

— 

The next day, James took the team of crows to the abandoned Taliban camp. It turned out to be an ambush. When they heard the detonations and the gun fire down in the army camp, John and his team and some officers hurried to an army van. The ride up into the mountains was the longest one John had been on. 

The Taliban had been thorough. There wasn’t even the groaning of wounded and dying men to be heard. No one was screaming with pain. It was silent, except for the crackling of the fire, of the bodies and the vehicle burning. They found James amidst the new recruits, young men, all of them. Younger than John by decades, it seemed. And all of them were dead and gone, wasted, torn apart. John had never seen so many people he knew killed. 

John hardly recognized James, half his body was burnt and raw flesh. He called for a helicopter immediately, James injuries were too severe to be treated down at their camp. He tried to stabilize James to make sure he would make it until the heli arrived. 

He couldn’t go with James. He stayed at the camp and tried to carry on. Later on he thought that his PTSD might have begun right there. During those days when he waited for information if James had woken from the coma, if he was still alive at all. 

“You aren’t ok, John,” Bill said, three days after they had rescued James, as he sat with John in front of their tent at night. 

“No, I’m not,” John replied voicelessly, staring at the mountains in the distance, dark against the evening sky. 

“Is it because of him?” 

“Because of who?” 

“John. Don’t try to fool me. Because of the Major.” 

John couldn’t say anything. 

“It is,” Bill stated calmly. 

After a while, he added, “Go to Camp Bastion. See a psychologist. You’re in no state. And try to see Sholto.” 

He neither saw James at Camp Bastion, nor in Afghanistan at all. Before John had any chance to get to the hospital, their camp was attacked. John was in the medic tent, seeing a comrade who had been part of the rescue team at the ambush as well. He gave him something to calm him down and took a note to send him to Camp Bastion to see a psychologist, too. 

The detonation was the last thing he heard. After that, he didn’t hear anything. He lost consciousness. When he woke up again, he was covered in rubble, but he was alive. No major injuries, except for the fact that he didn’t bloody hear anything. The detonation must have been too close. He got up and stumbled to his feet. It was a ghostlike scenery, everything seemed to happen in slow motion and in total silence. Most of the tents had collapsed, the air was filled with smoke and there was fire everywhere. He spotted some of his comrades rushing over the place, going into hiding. He could see Bill Murray. John wanted to say something, ask what was going on, but he couldn’t with his hearing gone. He saw Bill shouting at him. Bill gestured and John didn’t understand him. Pain exploded in his shoulder, he was thrown forwards and fell to the ground. He closed his eyes. Shot. 

He opened his eyes once more when he felt someone touching him, pulling. His chest was covered with something hot and sticky. The realization that this was his own blood and the overwhelming sensation of _pain_ kicked in at the same time. The pain was tearing him apart and he screamed at the top of his lungs. At least it felt like that. He saw Bill’s face over his, moving his lips and talking. He passed out. 

When he regained a small amount of his consciousness, he was away. Away from the camp, from the debris, from the fire. He was in a bed, his clothes were gone. The pain was still there, but lingering now, at an arm’s length. He didn’t dare moving. He heard the familiar noises of a field hospital. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be swallowed by the darkness again. 

The next time he opened his eyes, there was a nurse at his side. It took him some time to wake completely, passing in and out of consciousness. And when he did awake, he was told what had happened. The Taliban exploded a vehicle only a few feet from the medic tent. It was a miracle he had survived the explosion in the first place. When the Taliban attacked the camp right after the explosion, he was shot in the shoulder. Bill had rescued him. He had been taken to Camp Bastion, but his wound got infected. He had been unconscious for days. Ten more men had died and the camp was destroyed. It was evacuated and the survivors were transferred to Camp Bastion. 

He slept most of the time. Sometimes Bill would come to see him. John was so tired, he could hardly work up the energy to talk. He thought of James, he didn’t even know if he was still alive. The last thing he had heard, two days before the attack, was that his situation was still unstable. 

One day Bill told him that James was alive, but he wasn’t at the hospital anymore. He had to be treated in a specialised military hospital in England. The first families of the recruits that were killed had filed lawsuits against James. Nothing was going to be the way it had been before. 

Weeks passed. His wound healed badly. Months passed. He went through another infection, through surgery, physiotherapy and counselling. When the doctors declared they had done everything they could, he couldn’t move his hand the way he needed to to work as a field surgeon. He was trembling, he limped and he was PTSD-wrecked. He was transferred back to Britain in October 2009, the year which would turn out to be the bloodiest of the whole British ISAF operation in Afghanistan. 

Ten days before being shipped back to England, he managed to send an e-mail to James. It had been almost seven months since the ambush and since they had last seen each other. Since they had slept with each other. Most of the time, John had tried to avoid thinking of James. Everything that had happened between them was so far away that it almost wasn’t real anymore. 

Whenever John couldn’t escape thinking of James, he had been wondering why James hadn’t wanted him to talk that night. Did he fear to be overheard? Didn’t he want to hear what John felt for him, because he did not feel that way? Did John ever stand a chance against what the army meant to James? It was bloody useless. 

The e-mail to James was the least John could try. His parents were dead and Harry was a mess. The only time he had talked to her on the phone from hospital she had been drunk. At ten in the morning. 

John had heard from a former comrade that James had resigned from the army \- or that he was forced to, more or less. He was invalided, like John, unfit to serve. And he had gone into hiding after the families of the young men killed had started to pursue him. 

His e-mail was a mess, it was stiff and formal and emotional and desperate at the same time. He didn’t know how to talk to James any more. He asked him if he could come and see him when he was back in England. 

It took a whole week until James replied. 

_  
John,_

_Thank you for your e-mail._

_I am still struggling with the aftermath of my injuries, and I am battling it on many levels._

_As much as I am pleased to learn you still want to see me, after everything that has happened, I have to decline. I am invalided. I am_ invalid _\- to the army, to myself, and to you._

_I wish you all the best for the life that is awaiting you now. You are an outstanding soldier. It was an honour serving with you and being your friend._

_I am sorry, John. Please do not contact me again._

__James  
  
  


John didn’t have the strength to fight James’s judgement or to make a point in proving that it was his decision if James was valid or invalid to him. James had been his last anchor in England, the last faint hope he had clung to. Now that James rejected him for reasons John could only guess, he gave up. 

Under such circumstances, he naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are drained. 

He was so alone. 

\--- 

The phone rings. Sherlock grabs it and checks who is calling in the early morning hours. 

_John. Of course._

“Hello?” he mumbles, surprised at the sleepy sound of his own voice. 

“Hey… Sherlock.” 

John is breathing hard and his voice is shaking. 

_Nightmare, then. Bad one._

“Yes, John?” 

John doesn’t answer for a long moment, probably collecting himself and trying to sound less pained. 

“Can we… talk?” 

“Of course.” Sherlock sits up in his bed, leaning against the headboard. He watches the curtains in front of the window and stifles a yawn. “What was your dream about? Afghanistan?” 

“Yeah.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything further. He knows John talks at his own pace, in broken sentences. Telling him when he is ready. A few moments pass. He hears John’s breathing slowing down. 

“Things exploded… and there were bodies and fire. So many people dead.” 

_And you were shot,_ Sherlock wants to say, but he doesn’t. This is John’s tale to tell. 

“You remember what I told you about… Sholto?” John asks with a heavy sigh. 

Now Sherlock is wide awake. Of course he remembers Sholto. He remembers every word John has said about him and every minute he spent with him at John’s wedding. 

“Yes. Your commanding officer.” 

“Right. I… I dreamed about him tonight, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock isn’t sure what to say. He had been curious about Sholto, about him being _the first one_ , as Mary had called it. He had never dared asking, he didn’t want to push John. And he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know. He has his assumptions, though. 

“I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time, but it’s… sort of a difficult topic. I didn’t want you to be, well, jealous.” 

_Oh. Jealous._ Sherlock feels caught, because he has been jealous without even knowing if there was any reason for it. 

“I’ve had plenty of opportunity to be jealous, John. Girlfriends, remember? What difference would that make,” he says, trying to play it lightly. 

“Can I… just tell you? That ok?” 

“Of course.” 

John takes a deep breath. 

“Sholto was my CO. We worked together for two years, in Afghanistan. He was a bloody good commanding officer. Never seen anyone so devoted to duty.” 

_Is this really what you want to tell me?_ Sherlock wants to interrupt, suddenly impatient. But he doesn’t. 

“We became friends. We talked a lot. And… and. At some point I fell in love with him, I guess.” 

Sherlock stares at the curtains in front of the window, over there, at the other end of the room. He doesn’t know what to say. 

_John has been in love with Sholto._

He has always known there must have been _something_. But it wasn’t some meaningless sexual encounter, born out of loneliness and alcohol. John sounds so hurt. 

“I was in love with him for months. Remember what you said about… about that boy from the other rugby team, when I was at school?” 

They had talked about it when they were just about to become _this_ , them, together. 

“You were right back then, Sherlock, when you deduced what had happened. Harry came out at that time, my parents went mad and everything got even more difficult. Rob and I, we’ve… had something going on, but I lacked the courage to have a real boyfriend. I was… fucking scared. Bit of a coward, really.” 

Sherlock hears John rubbing his hand over his face. Then John goes on, on the other side, sitting in his bed at the safe house. The sadness in his voice tears Sherlock from his selfish thoughts. 

“I didn’t want to be a coward again. I didn’t know how James felt, but I made a decision. He was worth it. The trouble.” John pauses. “You still with me, Sherlock?” 

“Of course I am,” Sherlock says, because he is. John had been in love and obviously, he got hurt along the way. How could he not be with him. 

“One night… one night, I couldn’t sleep. I went to his quarters in the darkness. We kissed and… we slept with each other. I wanted to tell him about.. me, wanting him. Really wanting him. But he wouldn’t hear me. He said this wasn’t the night to talk.” After a pause, he adds, “You know, Sherlock, I hadn’t allowed myself to even consider falling in love with a man for so many years. And then he wouldn’t hear what I’d had to say. Well. He couldn’t have known.” 

John clears his throat. 

“The next day he took a team of crows out to examine a potential Taliban camp. It-” He takes a deep breath, preparing himself to force the sentences out. 

“It was an ambush. Remember what I told you about it before the wedding? A trap. The Taliban exploded an IED. Our boys were all killed, except for James. It was such a mess. Such a bloody mess.” 

His voice goes hoarse. 

“I was there with the rescue team. James was the only survivor. He had bad burns. We couldn’t save any of the others. None of them. All dead before we even got there.” 

Sherlock just listens, all tense. 

“Less than a week later the Taliban attacked our camp. Another bomb went off, they overran the camp. I was shot. Ten more people dead, 23 wounded.” 

He exhales shakily. 

“That’s what I dreamed about. The explosions. All the dead kids. James so badly wounded that I don’t know if he’s going to make it. It gets all mixed up with me being shot. - Christ, I’m sorry. It’s been fucking years, it shouldn’t bother me like that. It usually doesn’t.” 

“John. It’s alright,” Sherlock says. John is right, usually it doesn’t bother him like this. After he had moved back to Baker Street with Matilda, the nightmares subsided gradually and became more of an exception. Even the ones about Sherlock’s death. 

_But this isn’t_ usually, _this, here. The mission. The safe house. There is nothing usual about this._

“What happened? Afterwards? He - James - was at your wedding.” 

“Well. Yes. I spent months in hospital and so did he. But I didn’t get to see him, he was transferred to a military hospital in England. I was in Afghanistan. It was pretty clear that I couldn’t work as an army doctor again. Before I was shipped to England, I sent him an e-mail. I wanted to see him. Find out if… if we had a chance. He asked me not to contact him again. Wished me all the best for civilian life. Said he was invalid. _Invalid._ That’s what he called it.” 

Sherlock is torn between the remnants of his jealousy and his compassion, of his very love for John. John shouldn’t feel like that. Not ever. 

“That’s how I ended up in London. October 2009. Met Stamford and you four months later. I have no idea how I’ve made it that long. And… and by then I had decided I didn’t want to try this again.” 

There is a long silence. 

“I’m sorry, John.” 

“No, _I’m_ sorry, Sherlock. But... thanks. Thank you for listening.” After a moment, he adds, “Just couldn’t go back to sleep on my own right now.” 

There is a long pause. Sherlock doesn’t quite know what to say. So he doesn’t say anything, but just listens to John’s breathing on the other side of the line. It is calmer now. John is still agitated, but not terrified anymore. 

“You wanted to know how he ended up as a guest at my wedding,” John finally says, breaking the silence. 

“You must have been in contact in between.” 

“Yes. He sent me an e-mail about three years later. You… you were dead. I thought you were. Mary and I… we had started dating a few weeks earlier. He wanted to know how I was. I was… I wasn’t well, in spite of Mary. But not because of him. He apologized for not being able to see me when I came back to England. He said he had been through a phase of severe depression after the ambush. He was getting better, though. It was very formal, very cautious. Very distanced. I was glad to hear from him, but it wasn’t the same any more. He used to be someone who meant a great deal to me. Someone I respected very much, too. So I invited him to the wedding.” 

“Why wasn’t it the same anymore? What you felt about him?” Sherlock has a feeling he might know the answer, a hope. He has to know, though. 

“Two reasons. I was with Mary then. I was glad I got a chance to be with someone who liked me and who… God, I don’t know what she did. She kept me from falling apart. She was nice, and funny, and clever. She was perfect at that point of time. Of course she was. I always felt a little guilty, because I had the feeling I was getting more than I could give her back. It wasn’t as much about love as it was about… carrying on? Moving on? Having a reason to carry on, maybe? I don’t know. I always wondered what the hell made her stay with me.” 

Sherlock hears a rustling of sheets, John is getting up from his bed. He listens to John’s steps as he walks through the safe house. A cabinet is opened, there is the sound of a glass being put on the worktop. 

_Kitchen, then._

The tap is opened, John is standing at the sink and fills the glass with water. He takes a sip and carries on, “Now I know that both I and the job at the clinic were her ticket to a new life. It makes so much sense. Explains everything.” 

“Are you angry at her?” 

“For lying to me? Because I couldn’t believe a fucking word she’d said? For shooting you, after all? Yes. I was very, _very_ angry at her. You’ve seen me. And I was angry because she used me.” 

Another sip of water. The glass is being put down on the counter. 

“But, honestly, I used her as well. She was my chance for a different life, too. Or so I had hoped. I was angry at myself. For falling for her, for not seeing what she was.” 

”I should have seen it,” Sherlock says, his voice almost a whisper. “But I thought it was what you wanted.” 

“I know, Sherlock, _love_ , I know. And I wanted it so badly. God, what a fool I’ve been. I was so desperate for my plan to work out. Getting married. Settling down. I was so angry that it didn’t work that way.” 

He pauses. 

“She’s dead, Sherlock, her life killed her in the end. And I’ve got Matilda and I can’t… I can’t go on being angry. I’m so tired of that. One day, Matilda will ask questions and I want to be able to answer them without… those emotions.” 

Sherlock pictures John leaning against the worktop, running his fingertips over the rim of the glass. 

“I was so angry, because the other reason - the other reason why I had gotten over James… the most important reason, really, was… you.” 

John takes a deep breath and then he goes on, “It was you. You had given me a new life, you saved me. I don’t know how I’d’ve made it without you. I really don’t. You were so… brilliant and beautiful and fascinating. And you drove me mad on a regular basis and I loved you for it. You meant so much more to me than anyone else ever had. Including James. James was nothing compared to you.” 

Sherlock doesn’t dare breathing, and he doesn’t even understand why. 

“But I was so fucking closeted that I didn’t see it for what it was. I was so scared of falling in love with a man again that I just… I guess I didn’t allow myself to even _think_ about it. I’d ruled it out. Not gay. Impossible.” 

Sherlock hears John sliding down, his back against the cabinet. With a soft sound, John sits down on the floor. 

“Everybody else saw it. Moriarty. The woman.” He sighs. “Mary. She knew.” 

There is a long pause. 

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I am so, so sorry.” 

“How did she know?” Sherlock asks, his voice low. 

“She told me. Before you came back. She knew how I grieved you and she said, ‘You loved him, John. I know you did. Don’t try to explain it away.’ Guess she also knew about James, somehow. You know how she could see through people sometimes.” 

‘ _I can tell when you’re fibbing.’_ Sherlock certainly knows. 

“I didn’t say anything, but I told myself she had gotten it wrong, for once.” John exhales, and when he speaks again, he sounds tired. “So. Sherlock. That’s it. That’s how I’ve fallen in love with a man in Afghanistan, and how the things that happened down there still give me nightmares sometimes. How I fell in love with you and didn’t see it. How I’ve been a bloody coward all along. How I got us into this mess.” 

Sherlock swallows. 

“John…” His voice is hoarse, he swallows again. “You weren’t a coward. You \- weren’t. I understand you.” 

“Do you?” It is a real question, there is no sarcasm to it. 

“Yes. I will tell you… soon.” 

“O-Ok. Thanks. I don’t - I don’t quite think I know what you mean, but… yeah.” 

“I will tell you. Next time.” 

Right now, there are too many things to process for Sherlock, too many things that have to be reevaluated. 

_John loving James. John fleeing from his emotions for Sherlock._

Sherlock had never doubted that John loved him. That he might have loved him for a long time before they finally became _this_. But when they became a couple they were so busy, well, _being this_ , that they didn’t talk too much about the past, despite the questions Sherlock has had in mind. When they first slept with each other, he told John afterwards why he had faked his death. It had been such a relief to finally, _finally_ tell John. But then they needed time to get accustomed to this. All of this. And things have been ok the way they were. 

Behind the curtains, London awakes, although it will be another hour before the sun rises. 

“Get some sleep, John. Before Matilda wakes up.” 

“I don’t think I can go back to sleep now. Can you?” 

“No. We have to be at Mycroft’s office early today. Meeting.” 

“I see.” 

“John?” 

“Yes?” 

“Thank you. For telling me.” 

“Yeah. Thanks for listening.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the amazing @green-violin-bow for helping me with James Sholto's e-mail. ♥ 
> 
> \---
> 
> I will do a little travelling next week. I will do my very best to squeeze in a little time and sneak some wi-fi _at my parents' place_ to post the next chapter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock let his head sink back against the bench. Slowly, because it was thudding with a headache. He was grateful that the imbeciles from the Yard hadn’t had time to talk to him yet.
> 
> Coming down had been bad this time. He had tried to get some clonazepam for the the time when the cocaine was wearing off, he even texted his dealer in advance. Miracle how he had remembered that just after taking the cocaine in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for depictions of drug use, mentions of depressive behaviour and, again, heartbreak.
> 
> \---
> 
> Posting on sunday instead of monday since I'll be travelling tomorrow.

The next day is awfully busy, like most of the days recently are. Sherlock hardly has a minute to retreat to think about what John has told him. It lingers in the back of his mind all day, though, keeping him so distracted that Greg asks if he is alright. 

Between meetings, he tries to focus on plans and pictures of the Valadsko headquarters in Stratford. They went there a few days ago. Sherlock would have loved to break in after hours. But Mycroft quite rudely told him that this was none of his little cases (Greg winced at this) where his guerrilla techniques would apply. So breaking in was out of the question. Nonetheless Mycroft had one of his men go there undercover, dressed as a UPS deliverer. The pictures the agent has taken inside the building blur into one. Sherlock doesn’t discover anything significant. He doesn’t know what he was looking for anyway. 

Mycroft is attending something tedious at Whitehall in the evening and so there is no late night case discussion for once. Sherlock smokes two cigarettes by the open window. Then he takes out his phone. He had pictures of John and Matilda on his old phone. He wishes he had some on this one, too. Its blue-ish gleam is bright enough to make him squint his eyes. He dials John’s number and closes the window. 

“Hey, Sherlock.” John’s voice sounds soft, much better than last night. “Good to hear you.” 

“John.” Now it is Sherlock who has to take a deep breath and gather his courage like the oxygen in his lungs. “I said I was going to tell you something as well.” 

\--- 

**Sherlock, 2004**

Sherlock was tired. Exhausted, even. And he was restless at the same time. It must have been around noon. His skin felt sticky and his clothes itched. He was lying on a wooden bench in a cell of New Scotland Yard. Hard and uncomfortable. There was some rummaging outside his cell. Voices. The light and heavy tread of people walking by. Surely some officer would show up to question him at some point. 

He lured himself into hoping to get over with this soon, so he could get a cab back home to his shabby little flat in Clapham. He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers. 

_Ugh. No money. No cab._

He let his head sink back against the bench. Slowly, because it was thudding with a headache. He was grateful that the imbeciles from the Yard hadn’t had time to talk to him yet. 

Coming down had been bad this time. He had tried to get some clonazepam for the the time when the cocaine was wearing off, he even texted his dealer in advance. Miracle how he had remembered that just after taking the cocaine in the first place. 

But the night had gone completely wrong. The drugs had been good, perfect, even. The club he had decided on to escape boredom that night had been annoying, but entertaining. He had spotted a man pouring some drugs into a girl’s drink. She should have known better than to leave her cocktail unattended. This place had a bit of a reputation, after all. Sherlock had found her passed out at a table at the back of the club. He had tried to get hold of the man, was punched, insulted him and was punched again. Someone had called the police - thank God! - and for some reason, _he_ had ended up in this cell before it was even midnight. 

The clonazepam would have eased the come down so wonderfully. He had intended to spend the hours after clubbing crouched on his sofa, listening to violin concerts on CD until he would have been able to sleep in the late morning. Instead he was dealing with what felt like a particularly bad version of the flu. And there was no way he could keep the black thoughts at bay, the questions, the guilt. He didn’t sleep to avoid nightmares. At least he didn’t throw up. But then, he hadn’t eaten anything since… whatever. 

His eyes were half-closed, the grey ceiling was a blur behind his lashes. 

_Nice effect, that. The lashes. Making everything look out of focus and tinged with black._

He squeezed them shut a little more. Everything got a little darker. 

Eventually, he would have to call Mycroft. He knew it, had known it since he got here, or even before. When that situation at the club got out of hand. He should have taken better care… It wasn’t exactly news to him that deducing idiots is likely to end up badly. It wasn’t news that, when the police takes you as a drugged suspect, one is likely to end up in one of their cells. Especially if one was indeed high as a kite and insulted _\- deduced! -_ the officers as well. It had been admirable how calm that DI had stayed. A shame Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to remember his name. 

Mycroft would be disappointed and admonishing. And he would be absolutely tedious. Sherlock hated it when Mycroft was being tedious, he hated it about him of all people. But Mycroft had been making it a habit for years, it seemed. 

_His fault we don’t get on anymore, really._

As a small boy Sherlock had looked up to him. When Mycroft had left home to go to boarding school, Sherlock had been so devastated that his parents had got him an Irish setter puppy. He had still missed Mycroft, but Redbeard had saved him. He had loved Redbeard. 

_Oh, Redbeard._

The thought of his dog still made his heart sting, although it had been years since he had been put down. Eight years. Eight years since he first started using. Eight years on and off drugs, eight years of wasting himself, killing the time and getting high to escape boredom and hurt. He was no fool. He knew what had got him here. 

He had managed to walk to the line between getting lost in a hard drug habit and something resembling a more or less normal, _boring_ life for years. He had taken detours to either side though. He knew he might lose his balance any time, a life like this wasn’t likely to last long. Even with a tedious, over-protective brother that got him out of… situations. Like these. 

When Mycroft had come back for the holidays - blissful times, at home with Mycroft, with Redbeard - it had been marvellous. He had told Sherlock about what he learned at school, so much more interesting than the dull stuff Sherlock had to keep up with. They had played boardgames sitting on the floor with Redbeard curled up in Sherlock’s lap. They had gone out for walks at the beach, Redbeard running along beside them. They had deduced people. It had been a little contest, a game, to see who could do it better. Sherlock had been catching up considerably as he had got older. 

The tediousness had started when Sherlock was twelve, the year when he first went to boarding school. It would have been horrible even without his brother turning into a smug bastard. Leaving Redbeard behind had hurt more than he would have thought. But Mycroft had succeeded in making it even worse. Mycroft had changed so much that Sherlock had barely recognized him. He had put his worries about Sherlock above everything. It hadn’t been possible to have fun with him any more, he had been worse than their parents. Sherlock had lost his only friend and, somehow, his brother as well. Mycroft had been at Eton by then and he constantly wanted to know what Sherlock was up to. With whom he spent his time. How he did at school. 

_Tedious._

The truth was, Sherlock had spent his time with as few people as possible. His classmates had been idiots. They hadn’t understood him and, which was worse, he hadn’t understood them. He had made feeble attempts at fitting in, but there had been no way. It had been as if they had spoken a foreign language or communicated in code. He hadn’t known what they where laughing about half of time, apart from the fact that they had been laughing about him. Obviously. So Sherlock had withdrawn to protect himself. It had worked out far too well. He had missed his dog at school. He had missed him so much he didn’t want to see anyone else. Redbeard had never hurt him. Sherlock could rely on him. He had felt safe with him. 

This school, though, had been marginally better than the old one at home, but still most subjects had bored him to death. He had spent most of his time in the library, crawled up in an armchair and reading. He had read everything, any science book he could find. He loved Shakespeare. He had played the violin, enjoying the escape the music offered. He had even taken up fencing. The fencing mask veiled the face of whoever his opponent was, turning him into an anonymous counterpart and enabling Sherlock to focus on the fight. He loved the beauty of it, the elegance, the speed. And he had been good at it. 

It had stayed like that for most of the time Sherlock had gone to school. No friends. After he had skipped a year and was the youngest in his class, he had hoped things might get a bit better. Maybe the older boys were less idiotic. More interested. But they hadn’t been, and in the end he hadn’t cared any more. He had tried to ignore the others whenever possible (which had made communication between him and them even worse). They constantly had talked about nonsense, he hadn’t been missing anything. It had been annoying - football, school, girls. 

Girls. Well. 

Girls. Not really his area, were they? 

No. Not at all. Sherlock wasn’t interested in them. Not any more than he was interested in anyone else, at least. He certainly wasn’t interested in _that_ way. 

The thing with attraction had been a bit weird, though. At first. Because generally, other people mostly had been difficult. But during his second year at boarding school he had felt himself longing. He had hated it. He had felt like a fool. He hadn’t wanted to be dependent on anyone, he hadn’t wanted to risk getting vulnerable. He hadn’t wanted to give anyone the power to hurt him. But… what had he been longing for? Not for a special person. Not for someone he knew. 

It had been a bit like a composed picture, like a collage. Blending together into some anonymous made-up person. Put together from bits and pieces that had made their way into his mind. His mind that he had recently started to train to be a storage device. He had wanted to be able to recall things - forever, if needed. Get rid of others, delete them. 

Those pieces, those images were part of his daily life. The way someone’s eyes wrinkled when lost deep in thought. Someone’s laughter he had imagined to be friendly, for once. Full of warmth. Closeness. Understanding. The curve of lips. The arse of a underwear model he had seen in an ad at the station. 

And none of these pieces, in his mind, had belonged to a girl. Well, to be honest, in his mind they hadn’t belonged to any of his schoolmates, either. Or to a tanned blond man with this stupid smile on his face. Sherlock had been almost offended to be haunted by the image of his arse, round and muscular and… 

_Oh God. It must be so nice not being me. So relaxing._

Life had been fucking annoying. He had been fourteen, he had been alone, surrounded by idiot classmates and mostly idiot teachers. And he would have to stay at this idiot boarding school for at least another three years. People had called him freak, he had known that. And now he had been a freak attracted to boys. Men. _Brilliant._

He had known what it meant and he had made sure he would never let it show. There had been no need to add ‘gay’ to the idiots’ repertoire of insults. 

So there really hadn’t been _anything_ Mycroft could have cared about. Sherlock was just his baby brother, alone and trying to survive this. The idea to talk about what was weighing on his shoulders with Mycroft had never even occurred to him. But Mycroft had still cared, way too much. Constantly. And he had become predictable - asking what Sherlock was up to, how school was going. Trying to find out if he had got himself into any danger. This sometimes had happened, but in most cases he had got away with nothing more serious than a split lip or a talk in the headmaster’s office. Absolutely tedious. 

Uni, an insufferable eternity later, had turned out to be better. And worse. Sherlock had signed up for chemistry at Cambridge. He hadn’t had any plan what to do with his life. Not being bored definitely had been a goal, not being bothered too. And chemistry had proven to be fascinating. 

Uni had got better in the way that people stopped caring at what time he went to bed, or if he stayed up all night taking care of his experiments. The lab was beyond comparison to the school’s lab. And the other students had been less malicious than his school mates. Some even found Sherlock’s deducing interesting or amusing. People still called him a freak, but it sounded a little less despising. 

And it had got worse in the way that Mycroft had got even more annoying. He was making up for the freedom Sherlock had gained by even closer observation. Sherlock had needed to find his ways around Mycroft’s attention. And he had been getting good at it. 

And then there had been - Victor. _Victor._ He had been in Sherlock’s year, studying chemistry as well. Only child of rich parents. His father had been from a ship owner’s family, but he had quit that business after something had gone very wrong with a ship of his. So he had been running some successful and highly specialised chemical industry company. Business studies would have been the logical choice for Victor, but he had decided upon chemistry instead. He was clever, well-mannered, funny. Someone whom people liked. And he liked people, and parties, making friends. Almost as tall as Sherlock, messy light brown hair, dark grey eyes. Faint freckles in fascinating patterns on his nose and on his cheekbones. On his eyelids. 

Sherlock had thought he must be what people call good-looking. He didn’t care what other people thought. It just had occurred to him because to his surprise, he had found Victor good-looking. Maybe even beautiful. This didn’t happen often. 

But in spite of this, Sherlock hadn’t quite taken notice of him until the end of their second year. After they had bumped into each other while running the same experiments, Victor had asked Sherlock for help with preparing for the exams. It hadn’t been a secret that Sherlock was the best of their year. Victor hadn’t been the first to ask, but so far Sherlock had turned down everyone who dared asking. With Victor though Sherlock had realized that he didn’t mind too much. 

_If it turns out to be disappointing, I’ll make sure he won’t want to repeat that._

But there had been no need to do so. Victor’s questions had been interesting and he had been a quick learner. And Victor hadn’t been put off by him. So Sherlock had treated it like an experiment. What would it be like to interact with someone on a regular basis? Someone he didn’t entirely despise? 

It had been most interesting. He had started to catalogue Victor - what studying methods worked best, what topics had been hardest for him to understand. How they had interacted. But then things like his eyes, his hands or the sound of voice had shifted into Sherlock’s focus. What kind of things made Victor laugh. What kind of things didn’t. 

Sherlock’s mental notes on this experiment changed from _Not entirely a waste of time_ to _Making considerable progress, not a complete idiot._ And, after three weeks, to _Looking forward to seeing him again._ From _Enjoying proximity_ to _Never felt that way about an actual person before._

Sherlock had been shocked by that. Yet it had been a bit like smoking, a habit he had taken up in his last year at school. Out of boredom, mostly. The impact of the complex mixture of chemical agents in tobacco smoke on the human body was powerful and most fascinating. He might have started smoking out of the secret wish to impress Mycroft, who was smoking as well, the smug git. Sherlock had known it would be reasonable to quit smoking. And yet he couldn’t. 

Victor had seemed to be unaware of Sherlock’s inner war. He had been as easygoing as always, he even had dragged Sherlock - _Sherlock!_ \- along to some students’ parties. Sherlock really didn’t know why he had agreed on that, but with Victor around he hadn’t even felt too awkward there. And it had been an opportunity to study people. Most of them still were idiots and not worth his time. But it had been infinitely more interesting than in the sheltered world he knew from home or boarding school. Victor had made him feel as if he wasn’t a freak. 

There had been things lurking in the darkness he had only heard about. The students had sex. Plenty of it, at least some of them. He could tell (and he had, even to their faces, much to the amusement of the other students). The longing still had been there, but he had been very, very used to denying, hiding and suppressing it. It had been detached from any living, breathing person. It had been his. His alone. 

And there had been things more potent than tobacco. They had sounded like miracles of neurochemistry and pharmacy. Like the perfect distraction, like the solution to overcome boredom and sleep and transport. He knew people who used on a regular basis and from a distance, it all had looked so easy. But still, drugs came with all sorts of fuss - they were illegal, they were of dubious quality and origin. They cost a hell of a lot of money. So far, drugs hadn’t been worth the trouble. 

One day Sherlock and Victor had been brooding over physical chemistry at the library. Well, Victor had been brooding and Sherlock had tried to find a way to make him understand it. He had been infuriated by the fact that this place was obviously meant to study and lacked a proper blackboard at the same time. So Sherlock had scribbled the basics of the calculation on the back of a door. And Victor had almost been in tears with laughter over the crosstalk between Sherlock and the library clerk, who refused to accept any of Sherlock’s behaviour and his explanations. 

Victor’s melodic laughter, combined with a breathless “God, Sherlock, you’re brilliant” had felt so amazing to Sherlock that he had almost panicked. 

_Too close, this is getting too close._

Throughout the night, back in his room on his own, he had smoked half a package of cigarettes. He had been too wound up to sleep, unable to focus on anything. It had been driving him mad. Victor had been on his mind, occupying more and more space. 

The next day he had showed up for studying at Victor’s place nonetheless. It had worked out quite well. Sherlock was damn good at chemistry and this hadn’t been the first night in his life that he hadn’t slept. He could perform while being sleep-deprived. Sometimes even better than he did well-rested. It felt as if he was more creative, more daring in his thoughts. As if the ratio, usually busy raising the borders of reason, was off duty. Maybe it had been the lack of this very ratio that had been to blame in the end. 

It had been late when they had closed their books. They had made some frozen pizza for dinner hours ago (which Sherlock had found appalling, but watching Victor eating it had been worth it). Sherlock wouldn’t have minded going on with physical chemistry for a while. But Victor had leaned back in his chair, placed his feet next to where Sherlock sat on the bed and stretched. He had been done studying for the night, obviously. And then Victor had changed the subject from their studies to a party they had been to two weeks ago. 

“Of course Ellen would invite Aarush to her place afterwards,” Sherlock had stated as they had discussed the one-offs that had been had after the party. 

“Of course? I thought she was glancing at you half the evening.” 

“Not her type, Victor. Aarush. And she might even keep him for a while. Although she’d better focus on the exams, there’s only a 41% chance she will pass.” 

“Shame, she’s nice enough. How did you know she took Aarush home? Did you deduce that from the way she held his hand? Or because she refreshed her lipstick when she was at the loo or something like that?” 

“Saw them kissing at the entrance to her hall. It’s next to mine.” 

“I see,” Victor had laughed. 

“It didn’t look very… appealing, actually. They were both incredibly drunk.” 

“Probably felt better than it looked. You should try it, Sherlock, you know.” 

If Sherlock would have been paying a little more attention to what went on outside his mind, he might have noticed that Victor knew that Sherlock was attracted to him. And that Sherlock was confused by it. Sherlock might also have noticed that Victor enjoyed spending his time with Sherlock. As well as the fact that Victor had never been keeping his sexual preferences - both women and men - a secret. And, after all, that he never took his eyes off Sherlock when he was around. Which might have led to the conclusion that Victor felt quite the same way about Sherlock. 

Victor also had understood a few simple truths about Sherlock that neither he nor Mycroft were able to see: Sherlock was lonely. Sherlock was brilliant, yes. But as much as he was able to deduce (or to observe) who shagged whom, he was frustratingly unaware of any affection that was directed at him. Sherlock was terrified by the possibility of getting attached to someone. It threatened to destroy the wall he had erected around himself and to demolish his principles on sentiment and entanglement. 

So when Sherlock had been packing his books into his backpack, he had only had a vague feeling that this discussion must have taken the wrong turn a couple of minutes ago. 

“Why would I want to kiss someone?” he had asked, trying to sound casual. 

“Sherlock,” Victor had said, “close your eyes.” 

And although this had been striking Sherlock to be a weird and possibly dangerous request, he had. He had been sitting on the edge of the bed at his friend’s small room, a bit exasperated and a heavy book in his lap, and he had been closing his eyes. 

A moment later, he heard Victor getting up and sitting down next to him. He had felt Victor leaning in and kissing him. His lips had been on his, warm and light. He had felt Victor’s breath on his face, he had smelt him. His aftershave, his hair, his skin. 

The surprise had set in an instant later. His heart had skipped a few beats. Victor must have felt it. He had laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, reassuring him. Sherlock had relaxed a little and his heart went back to normal work, but he had been at a loss at what to do. 

Victor had opened his lips and touched the seam of Sherlock’s lower lip with his tongue. Sherlock had made an involuntary little whimper, soft and desperate. He had been too fascinated to even catalogue the kiss. It had been breathtaking, and messy and perfect. He had opened his mouth as well, just enough to show Victor he was ok with this. 

Victor had been shifting his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder to the back of his head, slowly digging into his curls as he had intensified the kiss. He had licked into Sherlock’s mouth, grazing his tongue. 

_Oh God._

_Oh. God._

Sherlock had never considered that kissing could feel this amazing. Never in his life had he been as nervous as he had been then. He had kissed back hesitantly, immediately feeling Victor sigh into his mouth. This small sound had been enough to tear down Sherlock’s defences. His heart had been beating hard and the nervousness had made him feel a little nauseous. Not bad nauseous, but rather thrilling nauseous. 

Victor had withdrawn for a moment, just far enough that Sherlock could focus on his dark grey eyes. Victor had been smiling at Sherlock, giving him a moment to catch his breath. Checking if this was alright with Sherlock. It had been. It had been so very much. Sherlock had leaned back in, searching for Victor’s mouth. 

With his free hand, Victor had shoved the book aside. He had been sitting next to Sherlock, but Sherlock had needed him closer. And so he had awkwardly first wrapped one trembling arm and then the other around Victor. He had felt warm under Sherlock’s hands - why were humans so warm? So pulsing with life? How could another human possibly make him feel like this? 

Kissing, as Sherlock had realized, was fascinating. It had filled him with life and desire and of course, of course he would want to kiss someone. He always had. Always. 

Victor had drawn him closer then, until they had been chest to chest. Sherlock had never been this close to anyone. It was more than enough to make him drunk or high or whatever. Victor’s kisses had been a fluid movement against Sherlock’s body. The motion he had started with his mouth had rolled through the whole of his body like a wave and Sherlock had been the shore this wave crashed against. Sherlock had collapsed under these waves. He had let himself be pushed back against the mattress. 

He had felt boneless, unable to do anything but react to Victor’s touches. When he hadn’t withdrawn or signalled that this wasn’t ok, Victor had taken up a slow pace of moving his hands over Sherlock’s body. He had slid his fingers down Sherlock’s neck. He traced his collarbone with his fingertips against his shirt. He had brushed over the cotton, lingering over the spot where he could feel Sherlock’s nipples. 

A long time later, when Sherlock had been almost gone with want, he had ended up over the bulge in Sherlock’s jeans. Sherlock had panted into Victor’s mouth and he couldn’t help but press his hips up against Victor’s hand. Slowly, Victor had undone the buckle of Sherlock’s belt and the zip. He had opened the jeans and Sherlock felt Victor’s hand on the skin of his lower belly, tracing the soft hairs down to the waistband of his pants. He had been embarrassed at his obvious erection - and he had been incredibly aroused at the same time. But Victor hadn’t seemed to care, quite the contrary. His kisses had turned deeper and messier as his fingertips had grazed over the head of Sherlock’s cock. 

And - _oh God._ Sherlock had whimpered into Victor’s mouth, completely lost at how his hands had felt on him. Victor had spread the precome over Sherlock’s cock. He had gone on kissing him, and whispered little things into Sherlock’s ear in between. He had moved his hand up and down Sherlock’s penis. He slid his thumb over the slit at its head, until Sherlock had grasped Victor’s biceps hard and his hips had bucked. 

It hadn’t felt the way Victor would make him feel when Sherlock would have got more used to this sort of thing, to sex. At that moment, Sherlock had been very, very new to this. Everything that had happened had been overwhelming and surprising. His climax had felt like a glass of water been spilled, suddenly and without warning. It had left him gasping for air, his heart racing and his fingertips tickling with sensation. 

Afterwards it had taken him a while to realize that Victor had been holding him. Victor had drawn circles on his belly, right next to where his semen was spilled, cool against his skin by then. He had kissed him. Sherlock hadn’t been prepared for this amount of tenderness. He had always only expected the fierce arousal, the rush of blood in his veins, but not the gentle touching, that feeling of being held. It had been shocking. 

Hours later, in the darkness and solitude of his own bed, he would let his own hands ghost over the skin of his belly, still feeling Victor’s touch. Through his pubic hair and over his cock, replaying this again and again, until he had come once more. He would be able to enjoy the built-up of tension, the sweet ache of want, the feeling of getting closer and closer and closer and… _closer_ and, _God, yes,_ there, _there it was - there… oh… God._

He hadn’t been sure if he would make it through the memories of Victor’s tenderness again. 

Victor might have been in love with him, Sherlock thought later. Victor had wanted more, but Sherlock had been reluctant. Scared of being overwhelmed and losing himself in the connection to another person. Sherlock hadn’t allowed himself to fall in love. At least he had tried to do so. 

They had never given it a name. Victor had tried to talk to Sherlock a few times, he had tried to show him what Sherlock meant to him. Sherlock had evaded him, murmuring something about needing time. Eventually, Victor accepted this. He hadn’t wanted to lose Sherlock and had tried to be happy with whatever Sherlock had been able to give him. They had had sex. Those had been the moments when Victor must have hoped each and every time that he finally would get closer to Sherlock. When he had watched him get undone, when Sherlock had curled into his arms afterwards. 

Sherlock had always been at the brink of losing himself when they had had sex. It had been fabulous, too much to put into words. Too much for him, sometimes. He couldn’t believe that Victor had wanted him. So far, he had been very lonely and he had grown accustomed to it. He had been desperately afraid of failing at this, whatever it was that they had had. He had been afraid he wouldn’t deserve it. 

That had been why he hadn’t wanted to fuck Victor. Or to have Victor fuck him. He had been curious, of course, he had even fantasized about it. But he had never dared doing it. 

Seven months later, Redbeard had needed to be put down. He had been ill for a long time, he had been old. Sherlock’s mother called him on a Thursday evening and had told him that the vet had said that there wasn’t anything she could do for Redbeard. He had been suffering. They had had an appointment at the vet’s on Monday. 

Sherlock had spent one last weekend with his dog. 

He had cried on the train ride back to Cambridge, staring out of the window into the darkness, at the reflection of his reddened face, his eyes swollen from crying. Hiding his face from the others. 

His mother had called when Redbeard had died. And that had been the moment when the drugs had been worth the trouble. 

He couldn’t stand anyone near him. Especially not Victor. He was barely able to function after Redbeard’s death - fuck, he hadn’t been able to function at all. He hadn’t showed up at uni, he had lost weight during the following weeks. He couldn’t bear the thought of what it would feel like if Victor would leave him as well. 

So he had made it impossible for Victor to leave him - by withdrawing from Victor first. He had shut Victor out of his life. Victor had protested, he had tried to get back to him. To make him talk. Sherlock had never talked. 

Yet he had missed Victor, badly. Sherlock had broken his own heart. _Oh, Victor._

— _-_

He stared at the ceiling of the cell for a long time, at the Yard, through his lashes. The drugs. He still would do it again. Using. Probably. They were all that was left. He closed his eyes. 

He loved it when anticipation was tickling under his skin, and he knew he had a few grams of first-class cocaine. Preparing the syringe was a ritual. A sting in his vein and the drug spread in his blood. The cocaine kicked in in a heartbeat. It felt like the perfect, faint shadow of an orgasm with Victor. It gave him gentle arousal and bliss without the fierce edge of need, without the fear of being hurt. Just an enhanced, ever-lasting afterglow, the rush of the endorphins, which turned into the background noise of his high. In the foreground was the feeling of being heightened, of seeing and _understanding_ things. Heightening his thought processes, thinking faster and less chaotic. Things were easy, they fell into place. For once, he did not feel like his awkward, detached self. And all of this came without the annoying pain of doubt. Or double and triple checking the facts, even if he usually did it at a speed others wouldn’t believe. One thought lead to a myriad of others, and he thought them all at the same time. 

And the best, the _absolutely_ best thing was: things hurt less. Redbeard’s death hurt less. He was gone, yes, but he was in his mind, he was still there. Sherlock could recall the sound of his joyful barking in every vivid detail, the soft warm feeling of his fur under his hands. The sound of his paws against the hardwood at his parents’ house. Redbeard was there, in his mind palace, always waiting for a walk and a cuddle and never leaving him. Victor was there. There was no awkwardness between them and Sherlock wasn’t scared of loving him. They were there, both of them, and they accompanied him as he rode his cocaine high. 

Coming down and detox were like a penalty. Reality and the destruction he had done to his body took their revenge with relentless force. They greedily robbed him of the post-orgasmic bliss and replaced it with nausea. They filled his body with ache. They tore Redbeard and Victor and their love (yes, because that’s what it had been: Love) away. They left him to loneliness and hurt, to anxiety, nagging doubt and self-loathing. To the knowledge he would never, ever be worth their love. After the throwing up, the nightmares and the occasional panic attacks, he often was left exhausted and craving for the next velvety bliss. Mostly he got the important things done - taking a shower, showing up at uni, taking care of his experiments. Grabbing a sandwich on his way home, only a small one, his stomach usually was a mess. Sleeping and enduring the dreams. There were times when he didn’t care enough to get his things done. 

He was wrecking himself. He was doing a truly impressive job of it, despite everything he told himself when he was high, when he thought he had things under control. There had been two overdoses so far. Maybe they had been miscalculations, maybe the drugs had been too pure. Maybe he hadn’t quite cared. 

After the second one, there had been no way of keeping his drug habit a secret from his parents. Or maybe they had known all along. God knows what bits of information Mycroft told them and what bits he kept to himself. Mycroft had taken care of him both times. He had made arrangements for rehab and counselling and all that shit. Sherlock had hated it, but he had played along. He didn’t even know why. Mycroft had made him finish his graduation at Cambridge. Sherlock had missed a few months due to rehab and when he had got back, Victor was gone, studying abroad. Harvard surely would look lovely in his CV. Sherlock never helped anyone again with studying. 

He knew Mycroft had him tested. Psychiatrists and neurologists showed up during rehab, wanting to talk to him. Of course, Mycroft hadn’t told him about the tests and this had pissed Sherlock off enormously. Sherlock had tried to play it cool, to be annoying and above it all. 

And of course, Sherlock hadn’t been shown the results. That hurt. So he had broken into the psychologist’s office one night, latex gloves on his hands, and skimmed through the files until he found his test results. He had been determined to laugh about it, to ridicule it. He still remembered every word. 

The test had confirmed his worst fears - it had been him. It had been him all along, _he_ had been wrong. He had walked back to his room, nauseous. He had locked the bathroom door and had thrown up until his stomach had cramped. He would tell the nurses it was the withdrawal or whatever, fuck them. He had been awake the whole night, unable to sleep any more. _High-functioning sociopath._

He had no idea what to do after the graduation. He worked at the lab at uni for a while, just because it would ensure access to it. After a few months, it had bored him to death. London it had been then. It had drawn him in and swallowed him as a whole. He stayed at Mycroft’s, simply because it had been convenient, and he had been stealing Mycroft’s money for drugs. Occasionally. Oh, he wouldn’t have needed to. Some dealers - filthy scum - had wanted him to work for them. They had said his deductive abilities would serve them well in the underworld. Sherlock might have been a user, but it had been more than obvious that this would end him up in a dark alley, shot like a dog by one of their rivals. Others suggested that he would get free drugs - plenty of them, and the best - if he allowed them to use his body. He didn’t particularly care about his body, or about sex, but he never allowed it. He had been almost surprised at this resilient remainder of his self-protection. 

He had been wrecking himself for years. He had turned his worst flaw into his biggest advantage and mastered the art of being an absolutely rude arsehole. Sociopath, remember? He knew how to use it to drive anyone away who showed the first traitorous signs of caring. While he had had difficulties with communication as long as he could remember, he now knew how to use it to make sure no one ever wanted him close. How to locate the weak spots of people and verbally vivisect them. It was so much more efficient than politeness. 

It was a mystery how Mycroft had endured him for so long. Sherlock had turned it into a bit of a contest between the two of them, like everything had become a contest. Ten months ago, Mycroft rented this abominable flat for him in Clapham and kicked him out of his house. Even Sherlock could see the anger and despair underneath his brother’s icy politeness. He hadn’t known if this was victory or defeat. Their parents had turned silent with suffering. 

The drugs might be his death. The next overdose might be the last, or the one after that. Yet that perspective left him strangely restless. Should this have been all there was? Maybe. Who cared. 

He squeezed his eyes shut once more. The grey ceiling vanished into the darkness behind his eyelids. 

His violin. He thought of his violin. Maybe it would be nice to play again. Just until he had found a reason to die or to stay alive. 

The door to his cell was opened with a loud noise, sending thunder and lightning of pain into his head. Sherlock opened his eyes just wide enough to see a man entering the room. _Dark brown hair that is likely to turn grey within the next couple of years, late thirties, pregnant wife, one kid (toddler), stressful family life, working at the Met for 16 years. Overworked, trying to quit smoking (again)._

“So. Sherlock Holmes, is that correct?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes again. 

The police officer repeated, his voice a little harsher now, “Sherlock Holmes, that correct?” 

“Yes. Obviously.” 

“Well then. I’m Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.” 

\--- 

“So…” John’s voice is rough on the phone, he clears his throat. It is rough because he hasn’t said a word throughout the last hour, he just listened to what Sherlock told him. Maybe there was a lump in his throat at some point. Sherlock can’t tell. 

“That’s how you met Lestrade? You never told me, Sherlock.” 

“It’s not a nice story to tell.” 

“It’s not an easy story to tell,” John states calmly. 

“Not an easy story to listen to,” Sherlock adds after a minute. He draws a deep breath. “So. I know what it feels like to be… afraid. To feel like a coward. Frightened by the possibility of… love.” 

“I don’t… I don’t quite know what to say. Mycroft has told me things about \- about Victor and Redbeard and the drugs. Quite something different to hear it from you though.” 

“Well. I should think so.” He doesn’t know if he wants to sound sarcastic. He knows he owes his brother his life. 

“He actually… cares for you. I mean, look at what he has done. What he is doing now. Yeah, he cares. For us, even.” 

Sherlock presses his lips together. It takes him a while until he can reply. “I know.” 

“What was it like when... you know… with me?” John hesitantly carries on. “What was… different?” 

“I knew,” Sherlock says slowly, working himself around what he is about to say. “I knew from the very beginning that you were…” - he is searching for the right word - “outstanding. When you called me brilliant. When you shot the cabbie. That whatever there was between us was outstanding.” 

He blinks and forces himself to go on. 

“When I… jumped, I did know. I have underestimated the amount of pain my suicide would cause you. I deeply regret that. Every day.” He pauses to emphasize what he has just said. He can’t say this enough. He never can. 

“It has made me suffer as well. I was there, on the pavement, when you found me, as you were meant to do. I wouldn’t have been able to leave you if I hadn’t loved you, if I hadn’t known that it was absolutely necessary to save you.” 

He swallows, straightens and stands, there, next to the window of the room that isn’t his home. But it is a place where he has taken refuge before. He is safe here, sheltered by another man who loves him, even if in a very different way. He stands upright, bracing himself for what he is about to say. John is silent. He is listening and giving him time, just as he did with John last night. 

“I knew I loved you and I knew I would never love someone like that again. It was impossible. So I surrendered my whole being to it.” 

Another pause. 

“Realizing how much you had suffered while I was dead, I tried to make up for it. When I first understood what I felt for you, just before the fall, I never considered being… this. What we are today. I wouldn’t have been able to be this. And I obviously wasn’t what you were looking for.” 

“So, so sorry, Sherlock,” John whispers. 

“During my mission the thought of you was the very thing that kept me from giving up. That kept me breathing. I focused on you, on my memory of you. I had to think of you constantly to be able to bear… the mission. My thinking turned from reliving my memories into creating hopes. Anything to keep me alive. I imagined you as my lover. I wanted you to be my partner. But I couldn’t have that, I saw that when I came back.” 

He hears John’s breathing, even, but more forceful than he would breathe when he was relaxed. 

“The fact that you have kept me alive during my exile - which was meant to keep you alive - had changed me. I wanted you and I would never want anyone else again. I had nothing to lose but your friendship. When I got back, I was ready to be anything you would let me be.” 

He pauses, inhales, exhales. 

“After you had moved back to Baker Street with Matilda, I started hoping that there might be a chance to be something more than your friend. I have never been so terrified of hoping.” 

“But you did. You were anything but a coward.” John’s voice is soft and reassuring. 

“As were you, John.” 

They are both silent for a long time now. He can’t picture what John is doing, there is no sound over there, at the safe house. Maybe he looks out of the windows. Watches Matilda sleep. Stares at a laptop screen gone black. 

Something between them shifts during those minutes. They have been through this stuff before, at least partly. But sometimes it takes a long time to stop blaming oneself for one’s mistakes, for the damage done. 

John exhales. He sounds much more relaxed. 

“I guess we can stop apologizing for having been idiots, can’t we, Sherlock?” 

There is an ease in John’s voice that Sherlock hasn’t heard since all of this has started. An ease which is completely new when it comes to both their pasts. With a shuddering breath Sherlock decides to let go of the grudges he has held against himself. 

“We can. We better had.” He feels a small proud smile on his face. “And while we’re at it, we might consider to stop accusing ourselves of having been cowards. I think we’ve done that far too long.” 

Hearing this, there is a smile seeping into John’s voice as well. 

“Fair point. Stop beating ourselves up for the mistakes we’ve made.” 

“It was starting to get tedious anyway.” 

John chuckles. And suddenly Sherlock feels as if the sixty miles between them, the mission, Sokół, just _everything_ that is keeping them apart has evaporated. He can picture John now, John with his smile that crinkles his eyes and makes a tiny dimple appear on his left cheek, right next to his mouth. His mouth. Sherlock wants to kiss him. 

“But it was good to… you know. To talk. We should have done that earlier.” 

“You’re probably right. You always are, John.” 

“You call me an idiot surprisingly often if that’s really what you think I am.” 

“Because you are. And you’re still right.” 

“Now that’s some Sherlockian logic I can’t follow.” 

John laughs and sighs. 

“I… miss you, Sherlock. I miss you really bad.” 

And with that, they are suddenly nothing else but two lovers, separated for weeks now, longing for each other in every way lovers do. 

Before Sherlock can reply to this - and there are a lot of things on his mind he considers saying - there is a soft weeping from Matilda in the background. 

“Got to go, love. Take care, will you?” 

“I will. Good night.” 

John ends the call, probably on his way to Matilda’s bedroom already. Lifting her from her bed and murmuring soothing words into her ear. 

Sherlock sinks back on his bed and, for once, falls asleep without another single thought crossing his mind. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And without waiting for a reply, John ends the call. He sits on his chair and stares at his phone's dark screen for a long time.
> 
> _Bloody hell. Mycroft?_
> 
> He shakes his head and huffs out a laugh.
> 
> _Mycroft. Who would have thought._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you see where this is heading.
> 
> Also, there'll be a little break from the dry spell our boys are going through later on.

Two days later John is reading some Valadsko files, the latest reports from Novak along with Mycroft’s last e-mail. Although there are pages and pages to work through, it looks as if there isn’t much progress at the moment. Just small things neither one can see a pattern in. Which is frustrating. After the phone talks of the past days, John wants nothing more than to get home and see Sherlock again. 

John has never told any of these things to anyone - about Afghanistan, and Sholto. About how things have been between Mary and him. He had carefully avoided thinking about them. And he is sure it might have been the same for Sherlock, when it came to his past. The story about Victor lingers in his mind. It is one thing to know that there has been someone in Sherlock’s life. It is something different altogether to know how Sherlock felt and how the story went. He isn’t jealous, but it feels very, _very_ new, adding another piece to the mosaic that Sherlock’s past is to John. 

He has always assumed that the time when Sherlock had taken drugs regularly must have been bad. Learning what had happened back then - well, it has put an end to wondering what it had been like. What kind of things Sherlock went through. And what kind of things he did not go through. Right now, he is - once again - deeply grateful that they have made it here. That Sherlock is alive. 

He gets out his phone and types a text to Mycroft. 

_I need to go to Chichester this week for two hours. I can take Jacobson or Reid. Matilda could stay with your parents. Can that be arranged? -JHW_

It doesn’t even take 30 seconds before he hears the text alert noise. 

_Of course. Please let me know the date, the time and your exact destination a day prior to your trip. I will have two extra men accompany you. -MH_

_I will. Thanks. -JHW_

_Am I correct when I presume that you do not intend to inform my brother about this endeavour? -MH_

John shakes his head. _How can Mycroft possibly know?_

He stares at the message for a whole minute and then only types, _Yes. -JHW_

“Matilda, love?” he calls in the direction of her bedroom, pocketing his phone. She must be dismantling the furniture judging by the noise she makes. It is about time he had a look what she is actually doing there. 

“Hey. What are you up to?” 

She has managed to empty all the plastic boxes of the toys they contained. The toys are now cluttered everywhere on the floor. She is presently rearranging the empty boxes into a tower almost as tall as herself. She grins proudly. 

“Wow, that’s… new, love? How did you learn that?” 

John kneels down. Then he hears a knock on the door. 

“Come in!” 

“John?” Margaret asks when she doesn’t spot him in the living room. 

“Over here, in Matilda’s room.” 

“Nan!” Matilda calls at the sight of her. 

“Hello, love, hello John. I thought I could make some shortbreads for Christmas. Would you two like to help me?” 

John's first instinct is to say no, he hasn’t finished reading the reports. 

_Sod it,_ he thinks, _I'll read them when Matilda takes a nap after lunch._

“I think we'd love to. When do you want us to come over?” 

Matilda giddily runs to Margaret, who lifts her up on her arm and kisses her. Matilda giggles. 

“In twenty? I've just asked Marcus to go to Sainsbury's, I was running out of sugar.” 

“Sounds good.” 

When Margaret puts Matilda down again, she starts howling, raising her arms to her grandma. Margaret tilts her head and looks at her for a moment. 

“Ok, come here, darling. John, if you don't mind, I’ll take her. You come whenever you want, alright?” 

John smiles, nods, and when the door closes behind Sherlock's mum and Matilda, he goes back to the reports on his table. He finishes reading the one he was working on and leaves the rest for later. 

He walks down the tunnel to Margaret's and Marcus's house a little later and finds Sherlock's parents and Matilda busy in the kitchen. It is a dark day, heavy clouds are hanging in the skies. It doesn't look as if it would get anywhere beyond the pale glow of dawn after all. The fairy lights on the kitchen windows cast a warm light. With Margaret's Christmas decorations and the sweet smell of cookie dough, the kitchen is really cozy. 

Matilda sits on Marcus's lap, there's flour in her soft blonde curls and she is heavily concentrating on kneading the shortbread dough. When she puts a little bit of dough in her mouth, John is about to say something to stop her, but Margaret interrupts him. 

“Don't worry, John. There are no eggs in shortbread dough. I thought you can't keep her from eating dough all the time, and reckoned something without eggs might be better.” 

This makes John think of how they made cookies last year, at Mrs Hudson's. Matilda was too small to eat dough, but Sherlock surely wasn't. They were sitting in her small kitchen with Dinah Washington's _Winter Wonderland_ blathering from the radio. They had a cup of coffee while Mrs Hudson was busy making cookies. Whenever she turned her back on them, Sherlock would sneak a bit of dough. 

“I can see that you are stealing my dough, Sherlock Holmes!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed while closing the oven door. 

“I'm absolutely not,” Sherlock replied, still chewing. 

“You'll get salmonella infection one day, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson pointed out, the raised finger of warning audible on her voice. 

“And don't expect me to comfort you while you're vomiting,” John added. 

Before John could say any further word of warning about salmonellae, Mrs Hudson started talking about how she used to make weed cookies back in Florida. Sherlock chuckled and made a reply about the retarded effect of THC when eaten. 

John was about to say something like _Could you two stop going on about drugs like they were some nice little anecdote? Christ, an ex-addict whom I happen to love and raise my child with and my formerly drug cartel-running landlady!_

But he inhaled, looked at the two of them and... exhaled. Their conversation had already turned to another, less dangerous topic and John sighed, again. This was part of the madness one encounters when living at 221b. He wouldn't want to miss any of this. Learning about Sherlock’s past hadn’t changed that. 

John's heart aches a little at the thought of Mrs Hudson and their home. He looks at Margaret, Marcus and Matilda _. Now_ , he is _here_ , with Sherlock’s parents. Who love Sherlock, Matilda and himself no less than Mrs Hudson does. He is more and more becoming a part of this family, and so is Matilda. 

He smiles to himself and then at Margaret, who is handing Matilda a large lump of shortbread dough. 

“That’s very considerate, thanks, Margaret. Hey love, show me the cookies you’ve made?” 

\--- 

John doesn’t finish the reports until late that night. There are a few dates and information in Valadsko’s shipping papers that he finds odd and decides to inform Mycroft. 

It is half past eleven. Sometimes John is asleep at this time, but Sherlock and Mycroft never are. Usually they sit in Mycroft’s living room, discussing the case. Tonight, though, Mycroft's voice on the phone sounds remarkably tired. 

“John. Good evening.” 

John hears the unmistakable rustling of a duvet. 

“Oh. Am I disturbing you? You know, we can actually talk tomorrow, Mycroft. I'm sorry.” 

“No problem, John. I just decided I could use some rest. I have missed rather a lot of sleep throughout the last weeks. Do go on, please.” 

And then something odd happens. John doesn't notice it at once, but - he hears another man's low voice in the background. John can't understand what he is saying, maybe asking who is on the phone. The voice sounds sleep-muffled, surprisingly familiar and, well, intimate. _Too intimate_ for everything he thought he knew about Mycroft. 

After a moment's hesitation, John hastily says, “Er, right. I guess - I'll just give you a call in the morning. Good night, Mycroft.” 

And without waiting for a reply, he ends the call. He sits on his chair and stares at his phone's dark screen for a long time. 

_Bloody hell. Mycroft?_

He shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. 

_Mycroft. Who would have thought._

Walking over to his bedroom, he starts tapping a text to Sherlock. 

_You awake? -John_

A second later, the phone rings. When he answers it, he hears Sherlock rumbling, “Mmmmh. John.” 

“Hey, Sherlock. You're already in bed as well?” 

He pictures him in the middle of a large bed with even posher linen than Sherlock has in Baker Street. He might be leaning against the headboard, his laptop, a book or some files on his lap. Or nothing at all on his lap, just him, lying there. And not wearing anything. 

This picture fades a little as Sherlock replies, “Yes. Things are rather calm tonight and the past days have been exhausting.” Sherlock yawns. “Mycroft suggested we catch up on some sleep.” 

“Er, right. Just called him.” 

“Oh? Why?” 

“I just finished the reports on Valadsko and I noticed something odd about a few dates and shipping papers. No idea if it is important.” John hesitates for a second. “Sherlock, is… there someone with him?” 

There is nothing but silence from the other end of the line. 

“Like... Greg?” John adds. 

Sherlock coughs. 

“Greg?” 

John can hear the surprise in Sherlock’s voice and practically _see_ his nose crooked in disbelief. 

“He has been staying over a couple of times, when we decided to go through some reports after hours. You mean–“ 

John tries to picture the look on Sherlock’s face as things click into place. He grins. 

“– ooooh." 

Sherlock pauses. 

“And I always thought he'd sleep in the second guest room.” 

John chuckles. 

“What's so funny about that, John?” 

“Nothing. I just like the idea.” 

“What idea?” 

“Mycroft and Greg.” John chuckles again. “And you, for once seeing, but not observing.” 

“Oh John, that's hardly fair. Mycroft knows how deductions work and he obviously knows how to veil the evidence.” 

“Or you might just have a tiny blind spot when it comes to your brother.” 

“John.” Sherlock’s disdain at this is audible. 

John clears his throat, swallowing another chuckle in order to spare Sherlock's apparently rather fragile ego. “Sure. Sure he does know how to veil the evidence. And how often exactly has Greg been staying over? And since when?” 

“Maybe once or twice last week. Three times this week. --- God, I'm such an idiot.” 

\--- 

Sherlock is the first one to arrive in the dining room the next morning. He sits down in his usual chair, pours a cup of tea and helps himself to some toast. He might even eat it. 

When Mycroft enters the room, Sherlock finally does _observe_. There is nothing out of the ordinary. But of course he wouldn't show any of the smug satisfaction that has usually given away the idiots at uni. Not to mention that he isn't wearing yesterday's crumpled clothes or half-hiding a love bite with a displaced scarf. 

_But... wait._

Mycroft is a little slower today. A bit more relaxed. His stiff upper lip is softer, the mask he is usually wearing is slightly off. 

Sherlock takes a sip from his tea and then concentrates on the fine bone china cup as he says, “So you're shagging my favourite DI then?” 

Mycroft puts down the knife he was spreading butter with on his toast and looks at him, eyebrows raised. Greg, who was just stepping through the dining room door, stops short. 

After a paralyzed moment, Greg clears his throat. “Ok, I’ll give you two a moment to sort this out, right?” 

Mycroft turns his head and throws him a glance that makes Greg just cock an eyebrow and leave. Sherlock's lips turn into the hint of a smile. 

“It has taken you long enough, brother dear,” Mycroft retorts after another well-measured minute of silence. 

“Well. If you have eliminated the impossible, what remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” 

Sherlock is almost sure he can see Mycroft rolling his eyes at his cup of tea. 

Greg returns a few minutes later and they have breakfast, not talking much. Greg excuses himself first, muttering something under his breath about having to call Donovan. 

When Mycroft has finished all of his low-fat blueberry yoghurt, he puts his spoon on the table with a little _clonk_ and looks at Sherlock. 

“Well. You’ve got John, brother dear. No need to be alarmed.” 

“That’s hardly news. What has that to do with Greg and you?” 

“I just consider John to be the only person who is actually capable of handling you. He is providing you with the strength and stability to enable you to feel something like…” - he tilts his head and raises his eyebrows - “…happiness.” 

That said, Mycroft gets up and leaves Sherlock to his tea. 

After this, neither Mycroft nor Greg seem to bother about keeping Greg's sleeping arrangements a secret. Since Greg is working a lot on the Sokół operation and the nightly meetings after hours have become a daily routine, he stays at Mycroft's almost every night. They are still quite discreet and there is not a single morning when Mycroft does not look absolutely impeccable. 

None of the three ever mentions it again. 

Nonetheless Sherlock observes small changes in Mycroft's behaviour. It is not that he worked less or as if he suddenly was as cheerful as a love-struck teenager. He still bickers with Sherlock, although that has already decreased considerably over the course of the case. 

It is rather as if something inside Mycroft has eased up a little. He appears to be a bit gentler with _himself_ \- less strained, less stressed, despite the amount of hours he is working. The more John meant to Sherlock, the more he wondered if Mycroft ever felt as lonely as he had most of his life. Maybe the company of a _goldfish_ would do Mycroft some good. 

\--- 

“Sherlock, look. John might have been right, I think I've found something,” Greg says. He is checking some of Valadsko's shipping papers and documents of importation from the last year at the office a few hours later. 

“What is it?” Sherlock leans over Greg's desk. 

“The dates. Four out of the six documents match the dates when Customs Investigation complained about wrong shipping and importation documents. Nothing big. They imported slightly more than the papers said, repeatedly.” 

Sherlock crooks his nose. “And?” 

“And on two occasions, it says they've shipped semi-manufactured steel goods, amongst other things. The steel stuff was from a company called – God, how do you pronounce that – SiedlceStal.” 

“So?” Sherlock is getting impatient and he hates that he doesn't see the connection. 

“Didn't the Warsaw agent mention it? Something in connection with that big operation?” 

Sherlock stares at the paper, willing them to reveal whatever secret they hold. 

“Of course, SiedlceStal – it belongs to Sokół's network and produces… weapons, amongst other things.” 

“Weapons? How do you know?” 

“I investigated Sokół back in Poland during my… exile. Siedlce is a city east of Warsaw, halfway to the Belarusian border. SiedlceStal pretends to be iron and steel industry, but that's just camouflage for weapons. We think it is one of the first companies Sokół incorporated into his network.” 

“So you think–“ 

“So I think that these so-called semi-manufactured steel goods could be weapons. Quite a bit, if you look at how much they have imported. And London isn't the place to deal with arms. Too dirty, too much fuss, too much attention. And given the rumours on an attack on the City, I'd say the weapons weren't supposed to be sold. It was a delivery for Sokół. Let me see... it isn't that much, but might supply an impressive unit.” After a moment, he adds, “A larger unit than we’d have thought so far.” 

“Ok. So now we've definitely got a connection between Sokół and Valadsko and another hint that he is up to something. And that might get us a search warrant for Valadsko. Do you want me to get one?” 

“Not yet. I don't want to attract attention too early. I will talk to Mycroft.” 

Greg nods. 

“We’d better check all their documents of importation then.” 

—- 

They work in silence for the next hours. When Greg can’t concentrate anymore, he gets each of them a cup of coffee. 

“Join me for a coffee and a cigarette, Sherlock?” 

By then, it is freezing cold and dark outside. Sherlock has no idea what time it is. They stand with their backs to the wall as if to escape the icy December wind from the Thames, smoking and drinking coffee. They watch the traffic rushing by towards Vauxhall Bridge. 

“Why Belarus?” Greg asks. 

“Hmmm?” 

“Belarus, Sherlock. Why is this company from Belarus? And why did he pick a logistics company?” 

Sherlock watches the lights of the cars. 

“Possibly he chose a company from a neighbouring country to veil his traces. There is a offshoot at Warsaw, too, maybe he got into contact with Valadsko there. Novak reported that Valadsko might have been the legal cover-up for Sokół’s network from the very beginning. He probably blackmailed the Belarusian owners into cooperating with him before he went to prison. And then let it operate as usual, apart from some minor smuggling. Which isn’t very surprising in Eastern Europe.” 

He takes a pull on his cigarette before he continues, “When Moriarty killed himself, Sokół saw his opportunity and turned it into his means of transport for weapons and drugs all over Europe and the UK. A bit of human trafficking and money laundry as far as we can tell by now. Maybe supporting terror groups. Valadsko is one of the biggest and the most modern transport companies in Belarus. It is seen as a role-model for the modern Belarusian economy. Impeccable at first glance. ” 

He watches his cigarette glow in the wind. “Perfect disguise.” 

\--- 

It is late, they finished their nightly case discussion ten minutes ago. He might call John now. Re-read the files if John is asleep already. Sherlock scans the room for his laptop. But it is nowhere to be seen. 

_Must have left it downstairs. Yes. We had a look at some pictures Novak has taken while talking about the mission._

He slides out of his room, across the hallway of Mycroft’s house and down the stairs without switching on the light. He knows this place well by now. Another hallway _(what does Mycroft need all this_ space _for?_ ). Then he spots the light from the sitting room door that he has left ajar when he retreated to his room. 

It is a motion inside the room that stops him from entering. He stands in the darkness of the hallway, peeking through the few centimetres between the open door and its frame. 

He sees his brother being held in a tight embrace by Greg and being… kissed. It shouldn’t be that surprising, but it is. 

Greg holds Mycroft as if the taller man would collapse without his support. All his smugness and greasy smiles are wiped off Mycroft’s face. He looks utterly real. His impenetrable facade is gone and Sherlock, for once, can read his brother’s state of mind from his face. 

Mycroft is tired. Exhausted, even. At the same time he is enjoying this, yes, he is enjoying this kiss, positively indulging in it. He looks needy. He needs Greg, his touch, his strength. It has never occurred to Sherlock that Mycroft might need someone. 

Mycroft kisses back and the light kiss turns more passionate. Greg melts closer into him. When Greg’s hands travel from Mycroft’s waistcoat over the small of his back and further down, they break the kiss. Greg whispers something into Mycroft’s ear. 

Sherlock is grateful that Mycroft can’t take his eyes off his lover, that he is completely occupied by him, huffing a small, soft laugh against Greg’s cheek. He would have spotted Sherlock within a heartbeat otherwise, there, lurking in the darkness and staring at them. Sherlock finally manages to move again, turns on his heels as silently as he can and tiptoes along the hall to his room. The laptop still sits on his chair in the sitting room. 

He has never seen Mycroft like this. 

_Has there ever been someone…?_

He can’t tell. He doesn’t think so. It is as if he had discovered a new fundamental truth about his brother, something that changes Sherlock’s whole understanding of him. And he only really understands it now that he has witnessed it. 

There is a strange feeling in his gut. It takes him a moment until he can name it. _Shame_. Ever since their estrangement when Sherlock was a teenager, he has hated the way Mycroft had interfered with his life. He had felt incapacitated by him. Every move of Mycroft’s had fuelled Sherlock’s rebellion against him. But maybe there was more to it than Mycroft just being over-protective… Sherlock had used him whenever possible. He had treated Mycroft as if the sole purpose of his being was to pay attention to Sherlock, to take care of him and to clean up the mess he had made. They had fallen into a pattern there. And he had completely ignored that Mycroft might actually have his own - well, what exactly? Needs? Feelings? His own life? 

Maybe it was about time Sherlock granted him that, whatever it was. Mycroft just looked happier than he has seen him in years. 

\--- 

John has a hard time concentrating on what is going on. While missing Sherlock has felt like stagnant pain ever since Matilda and he have left London, it has turned into a searing flame now. He wants to hold him, touch him. _God_ , the things he wants to do to him. It has been a bloody long time. Almost five weeks. 

That night, John is already dozing off before Sherlock calls. Somewhere between waking and sleeping, a fantasy is creeping up with the realism of his nightmares, yet infinitely more pleasurable. 

_Sherlock, naked in their bed._ _John is about to fuck him and Sherlock has his legs spread and he was stroking his cock while John's fingers..._ The phone rings and John realizes his fingers are wrapped around his cock. And he is breathing heavily. 

“Yeah? Sherlock?” He tries to sound as normal possible. Of course, it is useless. 

“John? You alright?” John can tell that Sherlock is surprised. 

“Yeah. Sure. Just...” John's voice is still breathier than normal. 

“Oh.” 

_Yeah, right. Got me, Sherlock._

“Well, I... miss you, too. Crave you, John. More than I would have expected.” 

Sherlock sounds a little shy and John has to smile, although he is the one caught in the act. Occasionally and in the most surprising situations, Sherlock reverts to being shy. Even though they have been together for almost one and a half years now and they have explored things rather thoroughly. And during that time, John found out that Sherlock absolutely and completely enjoys sex. He was more curious to try things than John initially was. And he surely didn’t hesitate to tell John what he liked. And so – despite all the experiences _Three Continents Watson_ has had – sleeping with Sherlock Holmes is by far the most mind-blowing, intimate, challenging and satisfying thing he has ever done. So when Sherlock relapses to blushing cheeks and stammering, John is reminded of the fact that he is the only one who was ever really allowed close to this blazingly beautiful and brilliant man. 

“I miss you like hell, Sherlock.” 

“What are you doing… tell me." There is a hint of a needy edge to Sherlock's voice now. 

“I am…” John is about to lean back, take up stroking his cock again and tell Sherlock goddamn _everything_ that has been on his mind while he dozed off. But then he remembers Mycroft’s safety measures. “Sherlock, do you think these phones are being overheard?” 

“Definitely.” Sherlock sighs and John bites back a frustrated groan. But after a full minute, Sherlock says, calmly and casually, “Do you remember the Davies case? The construction supervisor we caught on that building site near Waterloo Station?” 

It had been a grisly case earlier that summer, five people murdered by an engineer in Waterloo. It had taken them almost a month to catch the man. When they finally did, they got him after hours on a building site opposite of Waterloo Station. Sherlock had pickpocketed one of the engineers’ office containers and found the final proof. After a chase in the darkness on the 10th floor of the unfinished building, they had cornered Davies, caught him and handed him over to Greg. Sherlock had been, once again, daring and careless and amazing. Well, not as daring and careless as he used to be before they had Matilda. But this was definitely one of the most thrilling cases since John and Matilda moved back to Baker Street. Sherlock ended up with a large scratch on his cheekbone, sweaty and panting in the mild summer night. And John was completely lost at the sight of him. Maybe it was the adrenaline from the chase, maybe it was just him still being ragingly in love, but he _wanted_ Sherlock. Christ, how he wanted him. 

And Sherlock had seen it. When Greg had all the information he needed, he dismissed them, asking them to come to his office for the paperwork the next day. Sherlock had taken John's hand and dragged him away. To John's surprise they didn't take the shortest way to the A3200 to hail a cab, get some take-away and relieve Mrs Hudson from her babysitting duties. Instead Sherlock took him to the office container they had broken into earlier. Closing the door, he kissed John, hard and passionate. 

“Sure, I remember.” John swallows, his heart beating faster at the memory of that night. “I remember everything, Sherlock.” 

He lets the memories come back. He had pulled Sherlock closer, grinding his cock against Sherlock's thigh, so heated with arousal that his knees were about to give in. He had to lean against the wall of the container while Sherlock kissed him filthily. He groaned so loud he was sure Greg must have heard it a hundred yards away. 

John moves the microphone of his mobile away from his mouth, afraid he might groan again. He wraps his left hand around his cock, memorizing the friction Sherlock's body had provided. 

“Good.” Sherlock's voice is almost completely neutral, not giving any hint of what had happened that night in that container. And even though John hasn't said a word about what he is doing and desperately tries not to make any traitorous noises, Sherlock adds, “Go on doing that, John.” 

_Oh fuck._

Sherlock had nestled a hand down John's groin, opening his trousers and pulling them down until he touched his cock. He had played with the wet precome on its head. Right now, John does the same, the image of Sherlock, bent over him and breathing hard, on his mind. He had kissed John's open mouth once more and then went down on his knees and closed his lips around John's erection. 

John is fairly sure that, back then, he had let out a string of swearwords at the sensation of Sherlock's mouth around his cock. _Oh God,_ how he would love to do that now. But he bites his lips and manages a casual, yet slightly breathy, “I do.” 

He hears Sherlock swallow on the other end of the telephone line. In that container in Lambeth, Sherlock had paused to swallow his saliva and John's precome. He had licked a long stripe along his shaft. When he bit the tender skin of John's frenulum, John dug his hands into his hair. Sherlock took him back into his mouth and swirled his tongue over his cock. John knew he wouldn't last much longer and he knows he won't now. His hands went deeper into Sherlock's curls, trying to cling to him. 

“Your hands, John. In my hair,” Sherlock states, his voice still steady while recalling that sensation for John. 

With the same force John had pulled Sherlock's hair, he now works his cock. He can almost feel Sherlock's ragged exhales on the skin of his lower belly and hear his moans, stifled by John's cock in his mouth. He remembers thrusting into his mouth, hard, until he came. 

“So... hard,” Sherlock adds, still sounding so very calm. 

John doesn't know what he is referring to back there in that container. The way he pulled his hair when he climaxed, the way he came, pumping into his mouth or... _whatever_. Sherlock's voice is enough to send John over the edge now. All he can do is push the phone away, turn his head and groan into the pillow, hoping it will swallow all of the noise he makes. 

When he catches his breath again a few moments later, he searches for his phone with his clean hand. 

“Sherlock?” he mumbles into the phone, trying to sound at least half as calm as Sherlock did all the time. 

“You alright?” Sherlock is still there. 

“Yeah.” John laughs once more. 

_To an outsider (let's say, an MI6 official with the annoying task of monitoring their phone calls), this would be a_ very _odd talk with its hints and long pauses, but not sounding like two men having sex over the phone. Well, not immediately. Hopefully._

Sherlock smiles as well, John can hear it. “Good, John.” 

“So... what are you up to?” John asks, almost having regained his self-control and satisfied with post-orgasmic bliss. 

“There is something I have to take care of now,” Sherlock offers, with the slightest hint of tension in his voice, audible only for John. 

“I see.” 

John's mind goes back to that day. 

“Let me... help you, Sherlock.” 

Now John is the one sounding rather matter-of-fact. Sherlock can tell that John's heart rate is still accelerated, but he is calming down. Sherlock, however, is not. Neither picturing John that night in the container office in Waterloo nor thinking of him fucking into his fist in that bedroom in Sussex helps him to stay calm. And, _for God's sake,_ it feels like an eternity since he has last touched John. 

“I think we’ve had Chinese.” 

John's voice guides him into his mind palace, reliving that night. They called the Chinese restaurant from the cab on their way home. Mrs Hudson was sitting in John's chair, asleep over a magazine, the baby monitor next to her on the table. John had thanked her for looking after Matilda, feeding her and taking her to bed, while Sherlock searched the drawers for cutlery. They had dinner in the kitchen and ate straight out of the containers. Sherlock was hungry, desperate. But after a few minutes of gulping down his food while talking about the case, he found that it wasn't food that he needed. He fell silent, set the box with the fried rice down on the table and looked at John. He was still laughing to himself about some probably inappropriate joke Sherlock had made about the murderer. After a moment, John had felt Sherlock's gaze piercing him and looked up. John's eyes turned a shade darker ( _dilating pupils, of course_ , but the effect always takes Sherlock's breath away), when he recognized that look. He put down his fork, rose from the table and stretched out his hand. 

“We weren't hungry anymore,” John says in a low, quiet voice. Sherlock undoes the buckle of his belt and leans back in his armchair in his room at Mycroft's. He opens his zipper, almost feeling John's hands as he had taken him to bed. He undressed Sherlock, took off his shirt and licked at his nipples. Sherlock let him undress him, enjoying John's hands on his skin. He hadn't been able to do anything by himself, he only wanted to hand himself over to John. Let him take over, letting go after the rush of the day. 

Now Sherlock strokes his hand over his chest, imitating John's movements from a few months ago. He lets his hand glide down his belly to his cock, cups it and feels its heat through the thin fabric. When he circles his thumb over its head, the fine cotton gets wet under his touch. He presses his lips together and concentrates on a slow exhale. The sensation is marvellous. 

Eyes closed and trying hard to keep his voice from shivering, Sherlock replies, “You're right.” 

He slips his hand into his pants as he goes deeper into that memory: John, almost naked himself by then, was kneeling between his thighs. And he began to take him apart, slowly and methodically, with almost surgical precision. He bent down to lick his cock while stroking it with his right hand. His left hand cupped his balls, caressed the skin and occasionally squeezed them gently. 

“Hold on,” Sherlock says, focussing on breathing normally. He puts the phone aside for a moment, needing both his hands to push down his trousers far enough that he can do the exactly what John did. Thank God he had switched off the light before he called John. 

“Ok. Back,” he says when he sits back in his chair, pressing the phone and John's voice, John's very _presence_ , to his ear again. 

“Good.” John speaks slowly and Sherlock likes the way John is in control of the situation. Sherlock is melting under his few, loaded words. Just as he was in their bedroom, when John's fingers trailed from his balls to his perineum. Sherlock feels its soft skin under his own fingers. 

“I like that spot,” John adds, and Sherlock hears the smile in his voice. John had stopped sucking him off for a brief moment to say the same. His head dived deeper between Sherlock's thighs and he had felt John's tongue against that very spot, sending shivers all over his body. He licked down until his tongue touched his entrance. Now it was Sherlock who was swearing. John looked up and smiled again, licking his lips. A moment later, he had felt two fingers pushing against, _God,_ _into_ him. And doing that, John had taken him back into his mouth. Sherlock’s mind went blank, the different sensations intensifying each other. 

“And the other one,” Sherlock manages with trouble, thinking of how John had stroked over his prostate again and again. The memory is so intense, so alive in his mind, that it doesn’t take much more until he feels all his thoughts going still. Pleasure is taking over and he comes, trying not to make any sound. He doesn’t come as hard as he did back in the bedroom with John, when his climax seemed to last forever. It had left John smiling at him in astonishment and fondness. 

“That’s so beautiful, Sherlock,” John had said and he says it now. “You are so beautiful like that,” he had added. 

“So,” Sherlock says after a long while, when both his heartbeat and his breathing have gone back to their usual frequency, “maybe I should have a word with Mycroft about getting phones that are _not_ being monitored.” 

“That sounds like a good idea. Very good, actually.” John laughs. “We don’t need to entertain the whole bloody MI6.” 

They are both silent for a while. And it doesn’t matter, none of them needs to say anything. They have their silences at home and those feel as comfortable as it feels now. They hear each other breathe, lightly, slowly, intimately. Sherlock rustles with his clothes, cleaning up a bit. John shifts a bit lower on his bed, until he is lying down completely, his eyes closed. 

“You ok, John?” Sherlock asks after a while. “With the things we talked about?” 

“Yes. Yes I am, Sherlock. It’s still on my mind a lot. But I am. And you?” 

“Very much so.” He pauses for a moment. “Did you… did you tell him about us? James?” 

“Yeah. He sent me an e-mail on my birthday last year. I told him about Matilda and about you. About us living together at Baker Street. His reply…” - he huffs a laugh - “sounded almost cheerful. Told me he was so happy for me. And he said that you are a very lucky man.” 

“I absolutely am.” 

“I… miss you, Sherlock. Even more since we’ve… talked. You know.” 

“I do.” 

“And I’m still worried. I’m worried like hell.” 

“Hence the nightmares.” 

“Yes.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything for a while. Then he adds in a low voice, “Me too.” 

“You sleep enough?” 

“Mmmh. Probably not. How is the running?” 

“Helps. Quite a lot. Jacobson is giving me a hard time here.” 

“I started smoking again.” 

John doesn’t like it, not at all, but he can’t help laughing. “I know. Didn’t expect anything else.” 

“It’s quite nice, having a cigarette with Greg every now and then.” 

“I can imagine. What about Mycroft?” 

“Still smokes like a beginner. But he joins us, sometimes. Don’t know what for, though.” 

Sherlock hesitates. 

“John, I saw them. Before I called you.” 

“Greg and Mycroft?” 

“Yes. They… kissed.” 

“Well, that’s what comes with it, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes. Yes, of course. But it was… unusual.” 

“Did Mycroft ever have a partner before?” 

“Not as far as I know.” 

“Oh.” 

“He looked happy, though.” 

John smiles when he says, “I hope so. It feels really unusual to you, isn’t it? Mycroft… being in love?” 

“Yes.” 

“Maybe he’ll be a bit less obnoxious with Greg around.” 

“Hope so.” 

Another few moments of silence pass. John turns on his side and the phone rustles against his face. 

“You did grow that beard,” Sherlock states. “I can hear it.” 

“Yeah, I did.” 

When Sherlock doesn’t say anything and the silence sounds less relaxed, John carries on, “It’s not as bad as I thought.” 

“John.” 

“Yeah, I can imagine you wrinkling your nose and everything. But. Wait. I’ll send you a picture.” 

He switches on the light and takes a picture with his phone. He looks tired on it, all crumpled in his bed. He hits the send button. 

“You look like a sleepy pirate, John.” 

“What?” 

“Yes. That beard makes you look like a sailor starving for a razor blade, sleep and sex _for weeks_.” 

“Well. Didn’t we just have… well? Sort of? Anyway. I’ll shave as soon as this is over.” 

Sherlock clears his throat. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” 

“Oh. Don’t mind your doctors not being clean-shaven, then? You could have told me.” Sherlock hears John’s smile turn into a yawn. “It’s getting late.” His voice sounds sleepy. 

“I know. Sleep well.” 

“You too. Go to bed. You’re not going to be much of a help if you can’t keep your eyes open or think properly.” 

“Maybe.” 

“Good night, Sherlock.” 

“Good night, John.” 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mr Holmes? Listen, it’s urgent… I overheard a meeting today, between Sokół and Ryś. I’ve… got three places, all in the City: Paternoster Square, Liverpool Street and 122 Leadenhall Street. And I’ve got a date: 22 December, that’s friday this week. I can also confirm that weapons have been delivered from SiedlceStal. I have seen the arsenal today. Full report later, sir,” Novak whispers against the microphone hidden near his collar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Minor character death, graphic depiction of violence and murder in the last part of this chapter. And heavy angst. If this isn't your thing, please stop reading at the paragraph beginning with _"After the meeting with the task force and discussing the plans that had been prepared beforehand, (...)"_. You'll find a short summary of what happened at the end of the chapter.

John looks out of the window. It is tuesday, noon, the week before Christmas. The landscape rushes by, a swirl of grey and green, motorway asphalt and wintery meadows under low clouds. Reid is driving the car. They don’t talk. 

They did talk a bit on the way to Chichester. Military stuff. John likes Reid, his professionalism. 

_Must be a good soldier to serve with. Good soldier to trust with your life._

John did as Mycroft had told him. He did grow that beard, he is wearing the clothes Mycroft got him, even that cap (not the worst idea in winter, he has to admit) and glasses. 

Going to Chichester was good. It felt almost normal - apart from the fact that he doesn’t know this town, or the shop they went to. Apart from the fact that he is actually in disguise, that the man who accompanies him is not a friend, but a member of military intelligence. Apart from the fact that they are on a schedule, monitored by CCTV and that he is constantly worried about Matilda. 

Reid accompanied John to the small shop John had looked up on the internet. While John was talking to the man working at the shop, Reid pretended to have a look at the showcases while checking the street and everyone that passed by. 

It hasn’t taken John very long to decide on material and layout, he knew what he wanted. At the beginning of next week, the man in the shop said, he would have it finished and John could come and get it. John left his phone number (Reid’s, actually, no one would ever get the number of his safe phone) and a partial payment. 45 minutes after they had entered the shop they were done and headed back to the car. Everything was calm. 

Still, John felt as if he had clung to his phone like a drowning man to a life saver, always checking for the buzzing of an incoming call or new texts. Of course he knew that if really anything should happen, Reid would be notified much quicker by means of his almost invisible earpiece. John is glad he will be back at the safe house soon. 

_This is… quite a step. Never thought it would happen under circumstances like these._

“Everything alright, sir?” Reid asks when John hasn’t said a word in a long time. They have almost made it back to the safe house. 

“Yeah, sure. Just got a bit lost in thought.” 

He would be excited now, if things were different, buzzing with anticipation. He once was. But still, he actually _is_ happy. Deeply and profoundly happy, despite the mission and the safe house and everything. He is more sure than ever. 

“Not the most romantic conditions, I guess,” Reid adds after a while. 

“No. Probably not. But that’s… life, sometimes.” 

John looks at the streets that have grown familiar to him, ever since he started coming to Sherlock’s parents. Family. 

“There still isn’t any new information on whether you and your daughter are targets, is there?” 

“No. They are still working on it. Seems to be more difficult than we had anticipated.” 

“They will find out. Novak is a good man,” Reid states. 

“You know him?” 

“Yes. We served together before he went to special training for undercover missions. He is very good.” 

Reid is looking at the road, all calm and focused. 

“That’s good to hear.” 

John inhales, letting sink in both Reid’s professional detachment and his assurance that they are in good hands. 

_We will be fine. We will. And I will ask Sherlock._

He takes out his phone and types a message. 

_Miss you. - John_

_\---_

“I’m out for lunch, Sherlock. Gotta catch up with Donovan, haven’t seen her in five weeks or so. There’s no meeting until two, right?” Lestrade says as he puts on his coat and scarf in the office. 

Sherlock’s phone pings, text message. 

_Miss you. - John_

Sherlock bites his lip, hiding a smile and trying to ignore the sting in his chest at the thought of John. 

_Same. Talk later. -SH_

When Sherlock doesn’t reply to him, Lestrade insists, “Sherlock, do you hear me? I’m out for lunch, ok?” 

“Yes. Lunch. Donovan. Back some time… later.” Sherlock waves his hand distractedly, not lifting his eyes from his phone, shifting his attention to another thread of texts. 

“What are you doing there, actually?” Greg asks, halfway at the door. 

“Homeless network.” 

“You know what? You’re joining me, Sherlock. It’s really no use if you’re brooding here all day. You haven’t done anything except for this mission for the past weeks. Come on. Lunch it is.” 

Lestrade hands Sherlock his coat and nudges Sherlock’s right arm until he puts the phone down. 

“I guess you won’t give up before I’m coming with you,” Sherlock growls. 

“Right you are. Come on now. John would be delighted to know you’re eating something.” 

Sherlock puts on his coat, pockets his phone and follows Lestrade. 

Outside the building, Greg asks, “Cigarette?” 

“Sure.” 

— 

Lestrade waves at Donovan when they enter the restaurant in Westminster, more or less halfway between MI6 and the Yard. 

“Hey Greg. Haven’t seen _him_ in a while,” Donovan says, when Greg and Sherlock sit down at her table. She nods at Sherlock, who is still busy typing messages on his phone. “Can’t say I regret it.” 

“I do hear you, Sergeant,” Sherlock replies with an icy voice. 

“Well. I thought it might be good to get some fresh air between all that work,” Lestrade says in an attempt to evade a fight between Sherlock and Donovan. 

“Busy then?” Donovan asks, looking at Lestrade and taking a sip from her water. 

“Yeah, loads of work.” Lestrade furrows his brows. 

“Can’t talk about it, I take it?” 

“No. Mycroft Holmes’s business.” 

Donovan cocks an eyebrow. 

“So what have you been up to, Sally?” 

They discuss the latest news from the Yard over pasta, while Sherlock is nibbling on some olives, never taking his eyes off his phone. When Sally has finished her pasta and just ordered an espresso, they are almost done with the cases and the gossip. 

“How’s Dimmock doing, Sally?” Lestrade asks, still chewing some salad. 

“God, he’s complaining about all the extra work since you’ve been gone, you know him. He’s trying to get rid of a number of truck theft cases, he wants me to take them. Three garbage trucks from different waste disposal companies have been stolen, two in November, one ten days ago, during the first week of December. I don’t even know how that ended up on our desks… Well. Complaining, I’m telling you.” 

Sherlock finishes another text message and puts his phone on the table. He looks around as if he had just discovered he is in a restaurant near St James’s Park instead of the office. He grabs his hitherto untouched glass of water and drinks all of it in three greedy gulps. “We’d better get going, Greg.” 

“Greg?” Donovan points out. “He actually remembers your name now?” 

“Sally. Give it a rest,” Lestrade says calmly. “But you you’re probably right, Sherlock. It’s about time. Was nice catching up. Keep in touch, yeah?” 

“Any idea when you will be back at the Yard?” 

“Not the faintest.” 

_\---_

They have just been back from lunch for an hour or so, when Anthea enters the office. 

“Mr Lestrade? Here are three boxes from… ah, Customs Investigation for you.” 

“Oh yeah, thanks. Thanks. Let’s put them there, right next to the desk.” 

He helps her carrying the boxes, which as he discovers upon opening them, contain several heavy files. He takes them out and skims through the pages. 

“Sherlock,” he says, “these must be the complete importation documents and cargo lists of Valadsko from the past three years, I think.” 

Sherlock doesn’t look up. He is checking some photographs the members of the homeless network have sent him. The blurry camera phone pictures show Eastern European criminals active in London. 

“Good. Found anything yet? What do they transport?” 

“Loads of things,” Greg says, reading a few random documents. “Let’s see… machinery, electronics, pharmaceuticals, agribusiness supplies, synthetic materials and plastics. From all over Europe. If it wasn’t for the dubious deliveries from Siedlce-whatever, they’d be the perfect logistics company in Britain.” 

Sherlock abandons his photographs and for the next three hours, they go through the documents together. Sherlock tries to find a pattern - but there is none, there are too many transports, too many different goods, too many destinations. Valadsko hasn’t specialised in anything, they are frustratingly diversified. 

Then another meeting comes up, new reports from Novak and strategies that need to be coordinated with Mycroft. Sherlock has no time to think about Valadsko until John mentions it on the phone that night. 

“So, that logistics company of Sokół’s,” John says. “I, ah, went through the cargo lists Mycroft has sent. You checked them? Did you find anything?” Sherlock can hear the tiredness in his voice. 

“No, not really. I must be missing something.” He pulls on his cigarette, standing next to the open window in his bedroom at Mycroft’s. 

“Did you check on those agribusiness deliveries? It isn’t specified what they transported. But sometimes there’s a note that a license for importing and trading hazardous cargo is required.” 

John’s words echo in Sherlock’s head. 

_Agribusiness. Hazardous cargo. Fertilizer. Chemicals. There it is. THERE IT IS._

He almost drops the cigarette when he jumps back to his laptop, cross-checking Valadsko’s pdf files and excel charts, comparing them to the importation documents. 

“Sherlock? You still there?” 

“Yes, John, I am. I’m just… checking something. Just. Checking,” he murmurs, excited, the phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear. “There it is! John! I was an idiot. Such an _idiot_!” 

“Yeah, happens to all of us.” 

Sherlock knows there is a smile on John’s face and it almost feels like a normal case for a moment. 

“Those deliveries that required a license for hazardous goods. They have imported ammonium nitrate. Ammonium nitrate, John!” 

John needs a moment to process this. When he speaks again, his voice is clipped. “ANFO,” he finally says. 

“94.5% ammonium nitrate and 5.5% number two fuel oil. Bulk industrial explosive.” 

“Fuck, Sherlock. How much is there… can you see that?” John’s heart is pounding in his chest. He knows ANFO from his military training. Most probably, it had been an ANFO IED that blew up his camp in Afghanistan. The Taliban had used ANFO a lot, resulting in a nationwide ban of its components in 2010 by President Karzai. The IRA had used it. And ETA, terrorists from Colombia, Corsica, China, Pakistan and presumably the Hezbollah… “Bloody hell. Sherlock,” he says voicelessly. 

Sherlock scans through the files again. 

“At least a tonne, John, from what I can tell by now. I need to check all the cargo lists again.” 

“Anything I can do?” 

“Need to talk to Mycroft. I’ll call you.” 

“Ok.” 

Sherlock ends the call, storms out of his room, across the hallway to the stairs and up to Mycroft’s bedroom. He manages two loud knocks, but he can’t possibly be expected to wait until Mycroft answers. 

Rushing into his brother’s bedroom, he calls, “ANFO, Mycroft. Sokół is trying to build an ANFO bomb!” 

Mycroft isn’t asleep. He is sitting on the edge of his bed ( _duvets tousled_ , Sherlock notices), wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown, his hair still damp _(shower, of course)_ , his laptop on his knees. 

“How do you know?” 

“Valadsko imported 1.5 tonnes of ammonium nitrate this year. There might be more. I don’t think this is a coincidence. We have to re-check the importation documents, they’ve tried to veil it. Get up! Where’s Greg?” 

“Shower. We’ll meet downstairs in two minutes.” 

When Sherlock doesn’t leave the room, Mycroft insists, “Sherlock. Two minutes. Downstairs. _Please._ ” 

\--- 

They quickly realize that Mycroft’s downstairs sitting room won’t do for the task ahead of them. Mycroft summons one of his black cars and they head back into office. They check every container, every lorry that entered the UK on behalf of Valadsko TransBelarus Ltd. in the past three years. By the end of the night, it has become obvious that they have imported 2.9 tonnes of ammonium nitrate and, if the deliveries from SiedlceStal can be taken as weapons, enough guns to equip a small army. 

Mycroft has Anthea arrange for a task force meeting at 6 a.m.. A back-up team is permanently stationed in a conveniently untenanted warehouse opposite Valadsko’s headquarters in Stratford. Novak is constantly wired from now on. Every step he takes, every word he speaks and everything he hears is being monitored. The cooperation with Interpol gets closer. Mycroft is busy making telephone calls all day, while Sherlock is going up the walls with impatience. 

“Weeks and weeks of investigation and there is nothing except for enough ammonium nitrate to blow up the Tower of London,” Sherlock barks into his phone when John calls in the afternoon. “We don’t have enough information!” 

“You’ll get there, Sherlock. You always do,” John replies, trying very hard to sound like Captain Watson who is used to stress and waiting and danger. And not like John Watson, father and boyfriend, in whose stomach panic is simmering, ready to boil over any minute. 

“But I’m too slow! John, I’m too slow, I can’t see it!” Sherlock storms out of the office and heads to the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator. For endless minutes, John hears his steps echoing in the stairwell like thunder. Finally a door opens and the noise subsides. A lighter rasps aflame and there is the familiar crackling of the first drag on a cigarette. 

Sherlock exhales. John hears sea gulls crying from the Thames. Another pull on the cigarette. Another exhale, smoke fading in the wind. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” John demands calmly. 

“He is going to explode something. We don’t know when or what.” Sherlock inhales another lungful of cigarette smoke. “And the end of the year he was talking about is approaching really rather quickly,” he adds, bitter. “We still don’t know if Sokół knows about you and Matilda.” 

“Novak is a good man, Reid has said,” John replies. 

“Did he? I cannot see how this is supposed to help us now.” 

John doesn’t say anything. After a few moments of heavy silence, Sherlock offers, “He is good. He doing a good job. Sokół is extremely cautious when it comes to allowing new people into his network. It is actually amazing how far he has made it in such a short span of time.” 

“Yeah. Be patient, Sherlock. It has taken you two years to dismantle Moriarty’s network and now you expect to take this one down within less than two months.” 

“It’s already Wednesday. We haven’t even two weeks until the end of the year.” 

“I know.” John is resigned. “I know.” 

“I’ve asked members of the homeless network to watch out for things.” 

“What kind of things?” 

“Polish criminals. Unusual activities in London’s underworld. Rats leaving.” 

“And?” 

“Expecting news anytime now.” 

“Good luck then,” John laughs. 

“They’re invaluable. At least worth a try if the Secret Service doesn’t come up with results.” 

Sherlock pulls on his cigarette one last time, drops it on the ground and grinds it with the heel of his shoe. 

“Have to go back to work.” 

“Right.” 

“Give Matilda a kiss from me. I… miss her.” 

“She misses you, too.” 

\--- 

The sun has already set on that Wednesday morning outside the cascading building at Vauxhall Cross. Several computers are whirring gently with Novak’s surveillance, his movements are displayed at an array of screens. There’s Novak’s voice over the speakers. 

“Mr Holmes? Listen, it’s urgent… I overheard a meeting today, between Sokół and Ryś. I’ve… got three places, all in the City: Paternoster Square, Liverpool Street and 122 Leadenhall Street. And I’ve got a date: 22 December, that’s friday this week. I can also confirm that weapons have been delivered from SiedlceStal. I have seen the arsenal today. Full report later, sir,” he whispers against the microphone hidden near his collar. 

“Where are you, Novak?” Mycroft asks. 

“Valadsko headquarters.” 

“It isn’t safe to contact us from there. You will be overheard. Get out. Now.” 

“I can’t. There’s an operation scheduled for tomorrow. Delivery from SiedlceStal and other things, I haven’t been fully briefed yet. I’ve been assigned to the operation and Ryś is expecting me for the nightwatch at 2000, that’s in ten minutes. That’s why I’m reporting now.” 

“Too dangerous. Out. Now. There’s a standby team in the opposite building. I shall give the order to get you out.” 

“No, wait, don’t. Don’t blow my cover. Give me a few more hours. I’ll try to get more information. There’ll be a meeting within the hour. I’ll try to talk back to you around midnight. My shift will be over at 0600, sir.” 

There are steps in the background and Novak falls silent. Mycroft is staring at screen of the computer where Novak is a tiny red spot on a map of London. 

“The London Stock Exchange, the biggest station in the City and the Leadenhall Building, one of the most prestigious commercial skyscrapers. They’re the targets. 22 December is the date. Not even two days from now. That’s Sokół’s big operation!” Sherlock rapidfires. 

“How?” Greg asks, rubbing his eyes, the sleepless night is taking its toll on him. 

“I’ve got no idea.” 

“2.9 tonnes of ammonium nitrate will make an impressive amount of ANFO, but still not enough to blow up these three buildings completely,” Mycroft states. 

“Maybe he is going to cause an explosion near these places. Maybe it isn’t necessary to destroy them… maybe he just wants to… damage them. Symbolically,” Greg tries. 

“If the three tonnes of ANFO are divided equally among the three targets, there will be one tonne per target. Exploding one tonne of ANFO at or near a station as busy as Liverpool Street can hardly be called symbolic. It would result in the death of thousands of commuters. December 22nd is the last day before the holidays. That place will be _crowded,_ ” Sherlock snaps. 

“Sherlock, please,” Mycroft interrupts him sharply, but Sherlock won’t be bothered. 

“How is he going to do it? Ah, it’s right under our noses! We are missing something. Think!” Sherlock exclaims. 

Mycroft and Greg remain silent, staring at the computer screens. There is muffled talking in Polish from Novak’s surveillance. 

Greg’s phone buzzes. 

“Oh bugger, that’s Sally. Call her back later…” he mutters to himself. 

“Of course!” Sherlock shouts. “Of course. Oh yes… _YES_.” A wide grin spreads on his face. 

“Would you care to enlighten us, brother mine?” Mycroft says, his eyebrows raised. 

“It’s… obvious. Donovan - remember what she told you, Greg?” 

Lestrade slowly shakes his head, obviously puzzled. 

“Oh, come on, didn’t you listen at all to what she has said? There are three stolen garbage trucks from different waste disposal companies.” 

“And…?” 

“Think!” Sherlock exclaims again, getting close to losing his patience. “Think of the Bishopsgate Bombing in 1993. The Provisional IRA exploded a truck filled with one tonne of ANFO right at Bishopsgate. Subsequently, the _Ring of Steel_ was installed, a major security and surveillance cordon consisting of checkpoints, road barriers and thousands of CCTV cameras - now _that_ must have been like Christmas for you, Mycroft \- and up to this day, vehicles that go into the city are being checked. But, of course, no one would bother checking the garbage trucks that collect the waste of the City regularly. The companies are listed at the City of London’s Police, they have got the vehicle registration plates and everything. So these could pass without raising suspicion - especially for one last garbage collection before the holidays on December 22nd. They park at the designated targets - the Stock Exchange, the Leadenhall Building and Liverpool Street - and are being detonated while the City is buzzing with people. It would break both the heart of the British economy and the heart of the British people, _so shortly_ before Christmas.” 

Sherlock spits out the last words. 

“It would be devastating. Weakened by Brexit and the terror attacks of the past months, it would add to the dismantling of the British economy and to Britain’s role as a leading country in the Western World. It would mean chaos, something London would not recover from easily. Tabula rasa for Sokół. Perfect conditions for his criminal network, for corruption and everything.” Sherlock’s voice isn’t raised anymore. It is low and cautious as the full extent of what Sokół is planning sinks in. 

Mycroft hits a button on one of the computers and asks over the intercom, “Mr Novak, have you seen any sign of three garbage trucks anywhere around the Valadsko compound?” 

There are three deliberate knocks over the radio, Novak is tapping at his hidden microphone with his thumb. 

“Three trucks,” Sherlock interprets. 

“We need to stop them,” Greg utters. 

“We could send in a team now,” Mycroft agrees. 

“Not now. Novak has to get out first. Plus, from all that we have heard, Sokół isn’t in yet. We can’t allow him to escape,” Sherlock points out. 

“Send a second team to his place?” Greg suggests. 

“No. You are right, Sherlock. We shall wait until tomorrow, as requested. At 0600 his shift will be over, then he will be out of the building.” He clears his throat. “I shall make some more phone calls. Task force meeting in 15.” 

\--- 

After the meeting with the task force and discussing the plans that had been prepared beforehand, Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg stay at the surveillance room, listening to Novak being briefed in Polish about tomorrow’s operation. They have to get as much information as possible before they can take action. 

Sherlock recognizes Ryś’s voice, its harsh manner of speaking, rough from too much alcohol. There isn’t much talking except for Ryś’s clipped instructions. Tomorrow Sokół is expecting a large delivery of weapons, his cell had been mapping out this deal since before Novak had entered it. The atmosphere in the organisation is tense. 

“Last delivery from SiedlceStal arriving tomorrow at four a.m.. We need to get the cargo out as quickly as possible. Abgarowicz, Janosik and Kravtsov, you help the driver unpack the lorry. Žáček, you take the pallet transporter. Novak, Stępniak and Cyl, you store the cargo in the basement of warehouse two. We have to be finished before normal business starts at seven. You are not to leave after you’re finished with the truck. You will be given the details about the operation in the City afterwards,” Ryś instructs them in Polish. Mycroft interprets Ryś’s orders simultaneously for Greg. 

There are mumbled approvals from the other men. 

“Dobrze, wszyscy na pozycje. Operacja zaczyna się równo o 4 nad ranem. Spotykamy się o 3:30,” Ryś bawls and the briefing is over. 

_Ok, we’re done here. Everyone to his post now. Operation starts at 4 in the morning. We’ll meet at 3:30._

One of the men addresses Ryś once more. 

“I heard there are troubles in Warsaw. What is going on?” Mycroft repeats the man’s question in English. 

Ryś’s reply comes with a dirty laugh, as if he was telling some especially bad joke. 

“No troubles, Janosik. This morning, Wilk had to deal with someone who couldn’t keep his secrets. He isn’t going to tell anything to anyone anymore,” Mycroft translates, “Better keep that in mind.” 

A moment of silence over the radio. 

Sherlock stares at Mycroft, his eyes narrowed. “Was that our agent?” 

“I cannot tell. I haven’t had word from him since last night, but then I wasn’t expecting it until in a few hours.” Mycroft’s face is slightly ashen when he checks his phone. “Nothing yet.” 

There is a new voice on the radio. “Lepiej, żebyś o tym nie zapominał.” 

_You’d indeed better keep that in mind._

Sherlock recognizes it immediately. 

“That’s him, Mycroft. That’s Sokół,” he states, wondering how his voice sounds so firm. 

“Koniec przekazu. Ryś, Novak, wy zostajecie,” Sokół says icily over the radio. The hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck raise at the sound of it. 

_Everybody out. Ryś, Novak, you stay._

Novak has met Sokół in person twice, so far. According to Novak’s reports, Sokół hasn't paid any attention to him the first time. During the second time Sokół has addressed him personally, briefly, at the end of the meeting \- just a question about where his family was from in Poland. Who he had worked with earlier. Knowing how suspicious Sokół is when it comes to new men in his network, Sherlock has tried to make sure that Novak's new identity as a criminal was as bulletproof as possible. But when he read the report on that conversation, he couldn’t do anything but _hope_ it would work. Sending another man on his own into this battle felt very different than fighting yourself. When it was just your own life depending on the work others have done for you in the background. 

“Co się stało, Sokół?” 

_What is it, S_ _okół_ _?_ Ryś asks in a low voice and perfectly calm. 

“Ryś,” Mycroft interprets Sokół’s answer within a split second. “Tomorrow's mission is cancelled.” 

No one replies. After a long while, Ryś clears his throat. “I'll inform my men,” Mycroft repeats Ryś’s answer in English. 

Sherlock inhales sharply. _No, this is wrong. Sokół must have mapped this out for weeks, possibly months, it doesn't make any sense to call it off now! It’s just six days until the attack on the City. It is completely illogical, unless... Unless._

The fact that Sherlock can't _see_ what is going on and has to rely on audio only just makes it worse. He listens motionless, holding his breath. 

“No, _you_ won't.” Steps on a concrete floor, slowly, stressing the cold anger in Sokół’s voice. “I can't afford working with a man who doesn't properly check whom he allows into our organisation. Ryś, there are people that want to destroy us. You have made a grave mistake. Now look carefully, pay attention. This man”- Sokół must be pointing at Novak - “is a spy.” Mycroft’s voice croaks. 

“Watch, Ryś, watch how I treat traitors and spies. Watch _closely_ ,” Mycroft repeats when Sokół speaks again. “I guess you’ve heard about our British friend in Warsaw, haven’t you?” Mycroft closes his eyes in defeat, focusing hard on finishing interpreting what Sokół says. 

They hear Novak’s breathing. It’s steady and calm, but a lot quicker than just a few minutes ago, the blood must be rushing in his ears. 

“We have to get him out!” Sherlock barks. 

“We can’t. Too high a risk. He will be dead the very moment Sokół becomes aware of our team. Hold on.” 

Steps approach Novak. There is a hard noise, a punch, Novak is stifling a groan and retches. 

“You little scum. I will make you bleed. I will make you suffer,” Mycroft goes on as Sokół talks to Novak. Mycroft’s face, often enough a mask only conveying what he allows others to see, fails him in cloaking his emotions for the briefest of moments. Sherlock spots worries and fear flickering across his brother’s face. 

There is another punch, or a kick, something hitting Novak hard. Novak is going down to the ground, now loudly groaning with pain. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock shouts, “This is _enough_!” 

Without further debate Mycroft gives in and hits the button of the intercom and commands, “Get him out! NOW!” 

“Understood. Go!” says another voice over radio, one of Mycroft’s soldiers standing by just across the street from Sokół’s headquarters. 

“Suffer, do you hear me?” Sokół sounds angry and pleased in equal measure. Mycroft interprets relentlessly. Another kick. And another one. And another one. There are ragged breaths and the sound of Novak vomiting. 

“Tough little bastard,” Mycroft says, repeating Sokół’s sickening comment in English. 

Nausea sweeps over Sherlock. _Serbia._ He knows this all too well. 

“Did MI6 train you well? Bearing pain?” Mycroft nothing but mumbles Sokół’s words and then he commands over the radio, “Faster! And careful!” 

Another kick and the terrifying sound of breaking bones. Novak whimpers incoherently. Sherlock puts the back of his hand in front of his mouth. A useless gesture, he knows, but the nausea gets overwhelming. 

Then there is Sokół’s voice again, very close now, he must be bending down to Novak and the hidden microphone. And this time, he speaks English, with the singsong of his native language. “Mr Mycroft Holmes. Mr Sherlock Holmes. You will have to do better than this.” 

They hear Sokół’s clothes rustle, he is probably rising and taking a step back. A shot falls, muffled by a silencer, yet still ear-battering in the silence of the surveillance room. Another one. 

Novak’s groaning stops. The line is dead a second later. 

Mycroft moans and hits the radio button again. “Withdraw. Mission aborted. I repeat. Mission aborted. We’re too late. Do not risk going in.” 

\---

Sherlock slumps into the chair in his room at Mycroft’s place. The taste of stomach acid lingers in his mouth, despite the water he drank and the cigarettes he smoked. 

A whole lot of things happened that night. Mycroft called to an emergency meeting of the task force at 9:30 p.m., not even an hour after Novak was killed. Although most of the details of Sokół’s operation still remained unclear, there was enough evidence to storm Valadsko, arrest whoever they could get hold of and hopefully secure the explosives and the garbage trucks. 

But with both agents dead, Mycroft and Sherlock had lost their only sources of information. They couldn’t tell if Sokół would really stop the weapons delivery, or if he had said that deliberately for them to hear. After discussing things far too long with the task force they finally decided on a number of possible scenarios. They will meet tomorrow morning at 5 a.m.. Sherlock had argued that this would be too long, that Sokół probably would be long gone by then. 

“It’s the best option we have got, Sherlock. Believe me,” Mycroft insisted. 

“He has to far too much time to think and to plan things now,” Sherlock shouted. 

“I realize we need to act quickly, but panicking won’t help.” 

“I’m not panicking. I am impatient!” 

“You most certainly are, Sherlock. You and Greg should go home. Try to sleep. Meet you back here at…” - Mycroft had glanced at his watch - “4:30. I’ll send a car at 4:05 to pick you up.” 

“You cannot…!” Sherlock had tried to resist, but Mycroft cut his word. 

“I have work to do. Good night, Sherlock.” 

And that had been it. 

He swallows once more against the taste in his mouth. Endlessly tired, he fumbles his phone out of his pocket and calls John. It rings a few times before John answers. His voice sounds achingly like home and safety. 

“Hey, Sherlock.” 

He can’t say anything. Not a single word. He draws a deep breath, hoping John will hear it. It is much louder than usual anyway, tinged with something like a sob crawling up his throat. 

“God, Sherlock, you alright?” 

He swallows, breathes again and then manages, “No. Not at all.” 

“What’s happened? Are you hurt? Where’s Mycroft?” 

“I’m… ok. Mycroft is still at the office. I’m at his place.” He combs his fingers through his hair. “We lost a man today. Two actually. Novak. We had to witness it over the surveillance.“ 

John breathes faster and after two calmer exhales, he says, “Fuck, Sherlock.” 

“His cover was blown. Sokół beat him into a pulp and shot him. He spoke to Mycroft and me, addressing us by name. He knows that Novak was working for us and he knows we’re after him. Mycroft is trying to sort things out right now.” Sherlock pauses. “He sent me back here.” 

“Yeah, it’s probably been enough for one day.” 

Sherlock can’t say anything else, he is afraid the next thing that comes out will be a sob and if he loses it now, he doesn’t know if he can carry on. In his mind scenarios about Sokół knowing about John and Matilda are running wild. The sounds Novak made before he died are trapped in an endless loop in his mind, echoing through the hallways and stairwells of his mind palace. 

He wills down the lump in his throat and finally asks, almost voiceless, “Is it like that when they die?” 

John swallows. “Yes. Like that. Never gets any easier.” 

They are silent for a long time. Sherlock hears John moving, maybe he is sitting on the bed again. The small familiar noises John makes, the rhythm of his breathing. 

“I expect I will be getting a report and new safety measures from Mycroft.” 

“Probably.” Sherlock can’t make up his mind about what to do, for once it is failing him. All he wants is to sleep and to feel John close and this damned thing to be over. Yet he is buzzing with restlessness and adrenaline. 

They somehow manage to talk for a long time. Sherlock asks about Afghanistan. John asks about Serbia. And Poland. There are long silences, and Sherlock is grateful for them, just as he is grateful for the talking, difficult as it may be. It doesn’t make him feel better, exactly, but it keeps him from feeling worse. It makes him feel _not alone._

Finally, John says, “You need to sleep, Sherlock.” 

“I won’t. I can’t.” 

“You have to. Doctor’s orders. Sherlock, you have to. It’s just a few hours. There’s nothing you can do right now.” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He washes down the hard lump in his throat with a glass of Scotch. 

“It’s… it’s not your fault. That Novak was killed,” John tries eventually. “You’re not responsible.” 

“Of course I am.” 

“No, you’re not. He has - _literally_ \- signed up for this kind of mission. He was trained for it. It was his job, Sherlock.” 

“And he trusted us that we would get him out,” Sherlock says, defiant and desperate at the same time. 

“Yeah. He probably did. But he wasn’t a fool either. He knew this job could kill him. You know that when you… do that. That sort of thing.” 

“Did you know in Afghanistan?” 

“I bloody well did. I didn’t constantly think of it, it drives you mad otherwise. But yeah, of course, I knew.” A pause. “Just as you did in Serbia.” 

“I tried not to get killed.” 

“I know, love.” Sherlock hears John rubbing his hand over his face, he must be tired. Sherlock has no idea what time it is. It is dark, it is night. 

“Sherlock. Sleep.” 

“I don’t think I can sleep now.” His voice is barely more than a whisper. 

“Get into bed. We’ll talk until you fall asleep. I’ll be there.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of the scene at Valadsko: Sokół has found out that Novak is an MI6 agent and that Mycroft and Sherlock are trying to stop him from carrying out his plan. He knows Novak is wired and tells the Holmes brothers over Novaks's microphone that their interferance is no secret to him anymore. He eventually kills Novak which Sherlock and Mycroft are hearing over the intercom. (Sorry, I don't really know what has gotten into me here...)
> 
> Afterwards, Sherlock talks to John on the phone. He is deeply affected by witnessing a man's death and feels trongly responsible for Novak being killed.
> 
> \---  
> Very special thanks to my absolutely lovely and tremendously helpful and kind @icanwritesee for her Polish translations and checking on the Polish surnames!! You're great, my dear!! <3
> 
> \--- 
> 
> The research for this chapter was thrilling. And I'm sure it has landed me on the radar of several secret services that are trying to prevent terrorist attacks in London, though.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg grabs a slice of toast and some tea and stands at the window, next to Sherlock.
> 
> “You ok?”
> 
> Sherlock shrugs. “You?”
> 
> “Not really.” Greg takes another bite. “We’d better catch that bastard today,” he adds, muffled by a mouthful of toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for graphic depictions of violence and ongoing angst.

Sherlock indeed falls asleep, his phone tucked between the pillow and his ear. John hears Sherlock’s breaths go lighter and steadier, while the pauses between the things they say grow longer. It has taken a long time until Sherlock relaxed enough to let sleep engulf him. But when he finally has, when the talking had calmed him down enough to stop thinking and blaming himself, it is only a matter of minutes until John can tell Sherlock isn’t awake anymore. He must have been deeply exhausted. 

It feels like a blessing, witnessing Sherlock sleep. John knows firsthand how much you needed sleep in a situation like this. And how difficult sleeping can be, never safe from nightmares. Or from waking up in complete oblivion of the terror of the day before, delusively happy, until… you remembered and pain kicked in anew. 

Some minutes after John can tell Sherlock has fallen asleep, John switches the phone to speaker and puts it down next to him. In case Sherlock might wake up or have a nightmare he would hear him. It is the least he can do. 

John stares at the ceiling and listens to both Matilda’s gentle snoring from her bedroom next door and to Sherlock’s breathing on the phone. 

His thoughts go back to what Sherlock has told him about Novak. Of course this is what it feels like to witness a man die. Your men. _Your man._ He has gone through this far too often. 

_The memories hurt, hover over you, threatening to overpower you as soon as you let down your guard. You try to keep yourself busy, to keep going, to keep yourself occupied or drunk enough not to think about it. The memories might fade, eventually. Some memories just might not._

Matilda stirs and whimpers in her sleep, a short, high-pitched sob. John stays awake, trying to guard both of them while they are sleeping. 

_This whole thing has been going on far too long by now,_ John thinks, feeling an emotional exhaustion settle down in every bone of his body. _If they aren’t able to stop this bloody attack, I will… Well. Fuck. What will I do? What_ can _I do, after all?_

There is nothing he can do. For the first time since this mission started more than six weeks ago, he is outright out of hope. Grinding his eyes with the heels of his hands, he allows despair to wash over him for a few moments. 

_And I haven’t even started thinking about how to stop Sokół now, with Novak dead and everything._

Anthea had texted him earlier, informing him about 22 December and the targets. Sometimes she does that, when Mycroft and Sherlock are too busy. 

_It’s only one day to go. Fuck._

When his heart starts beating too quickly and he has to decide between forcing himself to sleep and getting up, he looks at his watch. Thursday. Two o’clock in the morning. 

_Way too early to get up. Fucking worst point of time to try to think. Lying in bed awake and worrying at this hour of the night, I’ve never come up with the solution of a problem. I bloody won’t now._

John lets his head sink back against the pillow and focuses on Sherlock’s breathing over the speaker of his phone for a long time. 

_In - and out._

_In - and out._

_In - and out._

It is as steady as a clockwork and gradually, John’s heartbeat slows down. 

_In - and out._

_Sherlock. Alive._

_My man._

He falls asleep. 

\--- 

It is dark outside, 4:05 a.m. on 21 December. It will be dark for a few more hours. This feels more like the middle of the night. Strangely timeless hours in the longest night of the year. 

Tomorrow Sokół wants to blow up three places in the City of London. Today they will attempt to take him down, to finally, messily put an end to all this. They will attempt this without even knowing if it is the right way to do it, they are flying blindly, their radar has gone down. All their meticulous planning has been in vain, because Sokół managed a strike when they could least parry it. 

When Sherlock woke up, his phone was lying next to his head, his hand still loosely wrapped around it. Everything had been back in an instant. And John was still on the phone. He was there with him. Steady, reassuring John. Sherlock heard him breathing, a sigh on every exhale. 

He got up, plucked the recharger from his phone and looked at the screen. John. Fast asleep, sixty miles away from him. Sherlock only ended the call after he had taken a shower, got dressed and couldn’t postpone going downstairs any longer. 

Sherlock looks out of the dining room window now, scanning the dark street for Mycroft’s car. He is already wearing his Belstaff and scarf, he didn’t expect the car to be late. 

Someone has made breakfast. The woman who miraculously manages Mycroft’s household is nowhere to be seen. Sherlock has half a toast and a cup of tea, eating and drinking while he is standing at the window. 

There are Greg’s steps on the stairs, heavier than normal _(tired, bad night and still sleep-deprived, of course)_. Greg, too, walks towards the coat rack. He puts on coat, scarf and gloves, expecting Sherlock to be outside or gone already. Sherlock hears him opening the front door, ready to get into the car, and, after a moment, closing it again. 

His steps are loud on the tiles in the hallway at this hour, when everything is silent. 

“Hey,” Greg says when he enters the dining room. 

Sherlock nods at him. 

Greg does the same Sherlock did: He grabs a slice of toast and some tea and stands at the window, next to Sherlock. 

“You ok?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “You?” 

“Not really.” Greg takes another bite. “We’d better catch that bastard today,” he adds, muffled by a mouthful of toast. 

The black car comes to a halt in front of Mycroft’s house. 

“Two minutes late,” Greg states incredulously. Mycroft is always on time. And so is usually everything connected to him. 

Sherlock goes through today’s plan once more in his mind, while the driver steers the car through the still deserted streets of Kensington. Even if everything works out (of which he isn’t sure), it will be a bloody mess. They might be done before noon at best. If they will succeed at all. _If._ Then there would be the usual tedious paperwork, hearings, interrogations. And things will be made even more complicated by the fact that they will have to deal with Interpol or the Polish authorities. An impressive number of Polish criminals have recently shifted to London, attracted by whatever Sokół has promised them. He needs them for back-up. He will need it today, definitely. 

The driver turns into Constitution Hill instead of Grosvenor Place at Wellington Arch and abandons their usual route to Vauxhall Cross. Sherlock is torn out of his thoughts. 

Looking out of the window, he points out, “This isn’t the right way.” 

There is no reply. While they are driving past Green Park on the left and Buckingham Palace Gardens on the right, Sherlock meets Greg’s eyes. Greg is alert, turned from tired to tense within a split second. The streets are empty. The trees at the parks are looming darkly against the London night sky, pale with the light of thousands of streetlamps reflected by low clouds. 

Sherlock takes out his phone and starts typing a message to Mycroft when the car stops at the kerb. Sherlock can see Buckingham Palace now, all its windows dark. The driver turns towards them and Sherlock almost isn’t surprised to see he is pointing a gun at them. 

“Hand me your phones,” he demands, his pronunciation heavy with an Eastern European accent. 

Sherlock hesitates, trying to finish typing out the message blindly. He hopes he has managed to hit the send button before he hands over his phone. 

A shadow is moving next to Sherlock’s door, the door opens, there is a sting in his neck. Sherlock catches a last glimpse of the golden statue at Victoria Memorial. The world goes numb first, then deaf, and finally dark. 

\--- 

The first thing Sherlock notices is that if he tries to sit up, he can’t. He is uncomfortably slouched into… something. A hard chair. 

_Where am I?_

He is restricted, he can’t move. Tied, of course. His hands. He tries opening his eyes. He has to blink a few times until the blur vanishes. 

“Mr Holmes. How nice to meet you again.” 

Sherlock doesn’t need to look up to recognize the man talking to him. There is a cutting edge of pleasure in Sokół’s voice, like honey dripping down a razor blade. Sherlock forces his eyes open. Basement room, two doors, dimly lit, Sokół and two of his men. There is dried blood on the floor, an odd pattern of reddish brown splashed against the concrete that hints at a gunshot. A wave of nausea rises in his gut as he realizes it must be Novak’s. 

_No,_ he thinks, _not now._

He swallows hard and tries to focus on the room, on the situation, on Sokół. On Greg. He turns his head cautiously. The drug they injected him with is making him slow and dizzy. He blinks again. Greg is tied to a chair next to him, eyes closed, still unconscious. 

Sokół is pacing, vibrating energy from beneath a calm and icy surface. He moves in a short and efficient manner, every step falls like a punch. A tight light blue shirt, expensive, fashionable, but crumpled from having worn it for hours, sticking to his skin. His short dark blond hair is slightly damp. The shadows under his eyes are darker and the lines on his face are deeper than they were when they met in Poland. He looks every bit the former military, yet luxury seeking brute Sherlock remembers. 

Sokół is drumming his Beretta loosely against his thigh. He stops, two steps in front of Sherlock. Sherlock feels Sokół’s stare prickle at his skull. Slowly, he lifts his head and meets Sokół’s gaze from under his eyelids. 

“I think we should have a little chat, you and I, Mr Holmes.” 

Sherlock doesn’t grace him with a reply. Sokół steps closer. 

“Christoph Schwarz. You know, you really got me with that one. You made a remarkable German spy when we first met. Even got the accent right. What a pleasant surprise to learn that you hadn’t been killed in Serbia.” 

Another step towards Sherlock and Sokół tips his gun under Sherlock’s chin, lifting it up until they are properly looking at each other. 

“Your hair was longer then.” He takes the gun from Sherlock’s chin, and Sherlock lets his head sink back a little. “Like it better this way, Mr Holmes.” Sokół slowly strokes Sherlock’s hairline with his Beretta, just across his temple. Sherlock straightens, trying to move his whole upper body away from Sokół. 

_He is trying to distract me. Biding for time. He is evaluating me, evaluating the situation, he isn’t sure if he can get out of this. He is gambling._

A cold smile is playing around Sokol’s thin lips, almost perfectly hiding the tension. 

“So. As you know, I found out about your agents. And I think you have found out about my… plan.” 

Sokół has taken up pacing again. He is walking a slow circle around Sherlock and Greg, tied to their chairs. 

“The timing is most unfortunate, though. I have put so much effort into it. And I really don’t want to abandon it now,” Sokół says, looking over his shoulder to Sherlock. He is right beside Greg. 

“But you and your brother are most determined to stop me. You always are. So I thought about a little incentive for the two of you.” He pauses and smiles a sick smile. “Tell me, how is Dr Watson? And his lovely little girl? Baker Street is ever so empty these days. I was looking for them! Getting a little worried, you know. But now I’ve got a nice trail leading to… Chichester. Such a pretty girl.” 

Nausea hits back with full force. 

“Make sure they come back home, Mr Holmes.” 

Sokół’s voice is calm and forceful. Greg moves, he is waking up. 

“But…” - and with one sudden, hard move, Sokół strikes out and punches Greg’s skull with the base of his gun - “…don’t you _dare_ trying to fool me,” he barks out, barely managing to keep the anger out of his voice. Greg groans in pain and passes out again. 

Sherlock wills down the panic violently rising in his gut and clenches his tied hands into fists. 

_He doesn’t know where they are exactly. If he did, he’d have mentioned the location of the safe house instead of Chichester._

“What do you want me to do?” Sherlock hisses. 

Sokół takes another disdainful look at Greg, and goes back to his slow pace around the two chairs. 

Suddenly Sherlock feels a hot, humid breath on his neck. 

“You call your brother. And you will inform him that Dr Watson and his girl will be dead the minute I learn about any meddling from MI6. As will you. And your friend,” Sokół breathes into his his ear from behind him. 

Sherlock blows his nostrils, disgusted by the proximity. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that. We are just four people. You are threatening to kill thousands, possibly.” 

“Do you really think so, Mr Holmes? I say you make a call to your brother now.” 

Sokół takes two steps and is at Sherlock’s side again. He nods into the shadow of the room and one of his men appears, cutting Sherlock’s right hand loose from its ties. 

Sokół holds the phone in front of Sherlock. Sherlock’s unlocks the screenlock. 

“Your brother. Now.” 

Sherlock taps at his phone and the call connects. Sokół switches on the speaker. 

“ _Sherlock,”_ Mycroft’s voice rustles over the phone. 

Before Mycroft can ask anything, Sherlock interrupts, “Sokół abducted Greg and me. We are ok. He demands to be left alone in exchange for John and Matilda’s safety in _Chichester_ -” 

Sokół rips the phone from Sherlock’s hand. 

“Mr Holmes. Withdraw. Leave me alone. Neither your brother nor his friend nor Dr Watson and his daughter will survive if I find out about any interference of yours.” 

He drops the phone to the ground. 

Sherlock sees it coming, but there is nothing he can do. Sokół punches him hard and pain explodes in his head. An image of John and Matilda flickers across his mind, he tastes blood and looses consciousness again. 

\--- 

John cracks one eye open to look at his phone. The screen has gone black and the line is dead. Sherlock has ended the call and something in his chest twitches upon that realization. 

_He had to, of course. It’s a quarter past five, he’s probably been up for one and a half hours._

He types out a message to Sherlock. 

_How are things going?_

There is no reply. 

_He’s busy,_ John thinks, and gets up to take a shower. He is exhausted, but there was no way to sleep much longer than this. Matilda is still sleeping. He peers into her room. She is cuddling Bee in her sleep and is gently sucking on her left thumb. She does that, sometimes. She looks so small. And so peaceful. 

There is a new message from Mycroft, sent at 3:30 a.m.. 

_John, please confer with Cpt Reid concerning the new safety measures. - MH_

After his shower, he goes to the security room. Reid and Jacobson are in what looks like a meeting with five officers John doesn’t know yet. Reid explains to him that they are reinforcement, going to stay until further notice. There are three men at the Holmes’s house and a dozen on stand-by on the street. John raises his eyebrows at the number of soldiers. 

“You can’t go outside as long as we’ve got this alarm level. You’re also to stay at the safe house and don’t go to the house of Mr and Mrs Holmes, sir.” 

“Understood. Anything else?” 

“No. I’ll keep you posted, sir.” 

After that, John prepares breakfast. There is a feeling of going into battle he hasn’t quite felt since Afghanistan or since Magnussen, when they left for Appledore. He misses the reassuring weight of his gun, but he can’t have a gun tucked in his belt when he has got Matilda on his lap. He gets it from his bedroom and puts it on top of the fridge nonetheless. 

_Sherlock. Anything new?_ he types on his phone. 

Send. 

Nothing. 

It is a quarter to six. 

He has two more cups of tea. He tries to focus on reading the Guardian’s website over breakfast. But before he has even finished his second toast, he sends another message to Sherlock. 

_Sorry, I know you’re busy. Just let me know if everything’s okay._

Nothing. 

_I’m going to call Mycroft if you don’t reply within the next five minutes._

It is 5:57 a.m.. He puts the phone in front of him, staring at its black, silent screen. 

At 6:01 a.m. he picks it up and calls Mycroft. 

\--- 

“John, good morning,” Mycroft says. He sounds tense. John doesn’t like that sound in Mycroft’s voice. 

“I, er, texted Sherlock. A couple of times actually, but he didn’t reply. Guess he’s busy - you all probably are - but I just wanted to check if he is okay.” 

There is a moment of silence and a low sigh on the other end of the line. 

“Mycroft? Is he ok?” John asks, more impatiently now, and already knowing that Mycroft’s hesitation was enough of an answer. 

“John, please calm down.” 

And this has the exact opposite effect on John. He has got used to Mycroft being part of his life in a way he never would have thought possible before Mycroft had him taken to Battersea Power Station all those years ago. He knows his life is deeply intertwined with Mycroft’s doings. And for the past years, Mycroft even has been rather helping than just monitoring and meddling. But ever since John had learned about the plot Sherlock and Mycroft had developed to stage Sherlock’s death, about those _fucking two years_ Mycroft knew Sherlock was alive and watched John suffer nonetheless, he can’t stand it when Mycroft has information about Sherlock he isn’t immediately sharing with John. He is getting close to rage at an alarming pace. 

He sniffs, tries to keep his voice down and demands, “What is going on? Tell me. _Now._ ” 

“Sherlock and Greg have been abducted by Sokół early this morning. As far as I can tell, the car that was supposed to take them here was hijacked. My driver has been found dead. At a quarter past four I received a text from Sherlock, informing me about the abduction. He still must have been in the car then. Forty-five minutes later Sokół forced him to call me. We tracked the call back to Valadsko’s headquarters in Stratford. He told me that Sokół demands to be left alone-” 

“I’m coming, Mycroft. Get me one of your fucking helicopters. I need to come to London,” John interrupts. 

“John, you can't come. It is too dangerous.” 

“Mycroft, do you expect me to sit here and wait while they might be killing Sherlock?” 

“Yes, John. That is _precisely_ what I expect you to do! I am taking care of the situation.” 

“No, forget about that. I need a helicopter, _now!_ ” 

“No, you don’t. John, listen to me - Sokół knows. He knows about you, and Matilda, and Sherlock. He knows that you have been to Chichester. I have reason to believe that Chichester is the closest he has got to you, that Sokół does not know about the location of the safe house. But there is no way that you leave the safe house now and come here.” 

John swallows hard. He clenches his jaw, rapidly rearranging his thoughts. 

“Sokół demands to be left alone in exchange for your and Matilda’s lives, and for those of DI Lestrade and Sherlock. In London I cannot guarantee for your safety, or your daughter’s. _Do not_ leave the house. Don’t even _think_ of it. _John._ It is far too dangerous.” 

“I can’t, Mycroft. I can’t stay here. Don’t make me do that,” John says desperately, his resistance crumbling. 

“Please, John.” 

John looks at the kitchen. The living room. His laptop at the breakfast table. A half-eaten toast, a cup of tea. Matilda’s toys on the living room floor. He thinks of his daughter, asleep in her bed. There are people who want to kill them. Possibly getting closer by the minute. 

He closes his eyes. Exhales shakily. 

“As you might have noticed, I have raised the alarm level and sent reinforcements. You are well protected at the safe house,” Mycroft states calmly. After a moment he adds, “And you must not leave.” 

John takes a few more deep breaths. 

“Okay. Okay.” He rubs his hand over his face. “What are you going to do?” 

“We’re going in any minute. The team is waiting for my command.” 

“You’re going in? At Valadsko’s?” 

“Yes. I have decided upon rescuing Sherlock and Lestrade as quickly as possible, arresting Sokół and thus making sure you and Matilda are safe. We also have to stop Sokół from attacking the City. A quick and well-coordinated strike is our best hope now.” 

“Okay. Can you keep me posted?” 

“Go to the security room. Captain Reid will give you an earpiece and you can listen to the intercom.” 

“Yeah. Thanks. Just… take care, will you?” 

Sounding immeasurably tired and on the edge, Mycroft replies, “John, of course. I am… deeply worried as well.” 

\--- 

After Mycroft has ended the call, John calls Margaret. Her voice is still sleep-muffled when she answers her phone. 

“John? What is it?” 

John would love to break the news to her more gently, but there is no time. 

“Listen… Sherlock has been taken hostage. Mycroft is trying to free him any minute now. I need to listen to the intercom at the security room and Matilda is still asleep-” 

“Give me a sec,” she interrupts him. “I’m coming over.” 

She enters the safe house in what doesn’t even feel like thirty seconds later, wrapped in a dark-red dressing gown. 

“I’ll look after Matilda when she wakes up. Go and make sure they get out Sherlock safely.” 

She presses his hand firmly. She looks at him in the same intense way Sherlock sometimes does. John’s throat is tight and so he just nods. 

Reid looks up when he enters the security room. 

“Mr Holmes has informed me. You can sit here, sir,” Reid says, showing John to a seat at the main desk. “Here’s the earpiece and a mic. Please keep radio silence though.” 

John puts the tiny speaker to his ear and sits down next to Reid. There are five screens at the desk. One of them is showing the CCTV footage - the Valadsko building and the street in front of it. A large gate, still closed. 

“We have CCTV coverage from outside the compound and the leaders of the teams have cameras attached to their helmets.” 

_Three screens, three teams,_ John thinks. Watching these screens feels like one of those camcorder films, they are shaky and move abruptly when the soldier with the camera turns his head. 

“This-” Reid points at the screen on the left, “is the footage from Team Alpha, lead by Commander Okonjo. Team Alpha will rescue the hostages. Team Beta and Gamma will arrest the enemy and secure the compound. Team Beta, lead by Commander Nicholls, will go in first. Team Alpha follows. The hostages are likely being held in Warehouse 2 in a basement room,” Reid explains. When John looks at Reid questioningly, he adds, “They tracked Mr Holmes’s phone to that place. Additionally, Novak proved that Sokół uses the basement of this warehouse for his activities. Team Gamma goes in last. They are awaiting Mr Holmes’s command.” 

The last screen shows a map of Stratford, red points marking the whereabouts of the teams. 

“There are reinforcements waiting in the vans outside on the street. They will block the street as soon as the teams go in,” Reid adds. 

John nods. 

“Alpha, Beta, Gamma, go!” Mycroft commands over the radio. 

Okonjo and the other team leaders repeat the orders over the intercom and then there is a blur on the screens as they start moving. They hurry across the street, and what must be team Beta comes into view at the CCTV screen. Team Alpha follows on its heels. Each team is about ten men in black combat suits. John notices some vans parked on the street. A second later, the third team appears. 

The teams rush through the gate and to the second warehouse. John hears the men breathing into their microphones as they jog over the yard to what must be the second warehouse. This feels every bit like Afghanistan. John is worried, tense and concentrated, but he can feel a sense of calmness settling in that he gladly welcomes. 

_Things are happening. Finally. No more waiting._

Arriving at the door of the warehouse, Nicholls holds out one hand, signalling the men to stop. One of them opens the door, Nicholls nods, the teams get in and vanishes from the CCTV screen. 

The warehouse is dark and the screen is nothing but a blur of grey and black. After a few moments of walking through the vast duskiness, another door is opened with a low creaking. The teams stop dead. When nothing happens, they are going in, walking down a staircase into the basement. They are moving almost soundlessly now and John is holding his breath. 

There are four doors at the basement hallway. Nicholls turns around, looking at his team and silently communicating with Okonjo. His right hand comes into view. He gestures at his men and at the doors. Two men go to every door, levelling their guns, two others head forwards to where the hallway makes a turn to the right. 

Okonjo stays back, ready to get in when Nicholls’s men have secured the rooms. Nicholls strides through the hallway, accompanying the men at the last door. The movements of his head, the way he scans the scenery is so familiar to John that this could be _him_ doing that. Muscle memory is kicking in, John slips seamlessly into Nicholls’s perspective. 

_All doors secured. Go in on my command._

John knows what happens. Nicholls must be raising his right hand, counting down from three to zero with his fingers, then signalling _Go_ and the men go in. 

After the relative silence of the past minutes, noise is now exploding in John’s earpiece. The clatter of doors, men shouting, gunfire. John’s stomach clenches. 

Suddenly Okonjo and his men are rushing to the last room. John has difficulties to see what is going on on the inside, everything is happening so fast. The room is rather small and lit by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Two men who must be Sokół’s are dead or wounded, John can’t tell. One man, tied to a chair, has been pushed to the ground. John can’t see his face, it takes him a split second to recognize Greg. Blood is running down his temple. John presses his white-knuckled fist against his mouth. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

A second chair is empty, and a phone exactly like John’s own safe phone is tossed to the ground. 

_Sherlock’s._

A second door shifts into view. It is open. 

Sokół and Sherlock are gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to @ennisnovember for her never-ending patience and discussing the course of events of this chapter with me. I owe you, ennis. <3
> 
> Another huge thanks to @green-violin-bow, who has written an amazing, lovely [rec](https://green-violin-bow.tumblr.com/post/165016328175/reasons-you-absolutely-should-be-reading) for this fic when I was feeling rather insecure about the whole thing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sokół must be flooring the accelerator, the van is going much faster again.
> 
> _They’re too fast, holy fuck! He’ll lose control!_
> 
> The road takes a sharp turn to the left and Sokół slams the breaks in order not to crash against the wall. The back doors of the driving van are yanked open and a man tumbles out. One arm curled around his head, he is hitting the asphalt hard, but he manages to roll over and probably absorb some of the shock. He is turning over and over and over. The other car manages to pull to the other side and avoids hitting him just in time.
> 
> The man lies on the ground, face down.
> 
> _Sherlock._

Okonjo barks something at his men and runs through the door, down another, narrow hallway, to another door and up a staircase. At the dark yard, they see the back lights of a white van speeding through the gate onto the street. 

Sokół crashes with the van through a half-finished street barricade and escapes. 

“What was that?” Mycroft barks. 

“Sir, we—” a new voice starts to explain over the intercom, only to be interrupted by Mycroft, his voice so full of rage that John sits up straight immediately. “ _Why_ wasn’t that barricade finished? You have had _orders_ and I expect them to be followed precisely!” Mycroft draws a deep breath and spits out icily, “Believe me, this incompetence and dereliction of duty has been noted and will be returned to later. For now _get into a car_ and _follow them!_ ” 

There is not a sound on the intercom. No one is even breathing. 

John has never heard Mycroft raise his voice. Even though this isn’t directed at him and in spite of having had his fair share of angry COs shouting at him during his army times, this sends a wave of cold panic down his gut. 

Within a second, one of Mycroft’s black vans materialises in front of Okonjo, his sliding door already open and Okonjo and two more men jump in. 

Okonjo and Mycroft’s men follow the white van racing through Stratford’s industrial area. The streets are almost empty safe for the first few people driving to work early. They are riding at an impossible speed, trying to keep up with Sokół who turns left and right a few times until he heads onto a large road. 

John watches the small red spot labelled Alpha rush down the A12 towards London. Okonjo follows Sokół’s van for a few minutes, past shabby buildings in the dark and deserted bus stops. 

On Okonjo’s screen, John watches the white van overtake other cars, there is more traffic now. Sometimes the vans slide into view of CCTV cameras. Sokół’s van is lurching from the abrupt turns at high speed and outruns a number of cars. Sometimes it rushes out of Okonjo’s sight. The driver of Okonjo’s van does an impressive job at pursuing him. 

_Sokół’s van is lurching more than it should,_ John thinks. _Christ, is Sherlock putting up a fight with Sokół while he’s driving?_

Suddenly the road has grey walls rising at its sides and the lanes are separated. The white van is sliding even more now, from one wall to the other, almost colliding with them. As the lane changes into a narrow tunnel, it passes another car and skids to the left so hard that the other car almost crashes into it. Sokół must be flooring the accelerator, the van is going much faster again. 

_They’re too fast, holy fuck! He’ll lose control!_

The road takes a sharp turn to the left and Sokół slams the breaks in order not to crash against the wall. 

The back doors of the driving van are yanked open and a man tumbles out. One arm curled around his head, he is hitting the asphalt hard, but he manages to roll over and probably absorb some of the shock. He is turning over and over and over. The other car manages to pull to the other side and avoids hitting him just in time. 

The man lies on the ground, face down. 

_Sherlock._

“Stop! Fucking stop right now! It’s _him_! It’s Sherlock!” John shouts into his microphone, but Okonjo’s car is slowing down already. A second van John hasn’t seen so far passes them by and follows Sokół, who has taken up racing down the road. 

“Alpha here, we’re in need of medical assistance,” Okonjo shouts as he and two other men jump out of the car. As he runs across the road, Sherlock comes more and more into sight on the screen. 

_Impossible to tell if he’s… if…_ John can’t finish the thought. There is an ear-battering noise ahead of Okonjo, further down the tunnel. 

“What happened? Mycroft? What the fuck has happened?” John demands. 

After a moment, another soldier’s voice creaks over the radio. “Delta here. The van has crashed against the wall. We are approaching it now. Hold on.” John hears the heavy tread of military boots against the asphalt. 

“Sokół is dead. I repeat: Sokół is confirmed dead,” the soldier shouts against the noise of the burning van. 

Within a split second, John’s stomach is doing something weird with relief, _Thank God, no attack, there’ll be no attack tomorrow._

“How’s Sherlock?” John then barks, not giving Mycroft any time to reply to his men. 

Okonjo is close to Sherlock, he kneels down beside him and slowly turns him around. Sherlock’s face comes into vision, there is blood on his face. John tries to avoid every thought about the one time he has seen Sherlock lying lifelessly on the ground, blood on his temple and in his hair. He sees Okonjo’s steady hands take Sherlock’s pulse. 

“Hold on, sir. I’m with him now. He is alive. I repeat: Mr Holmes is alive.” 

John closes his eyes. 

_He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive. Oh thank God, he’s alive._

When he opens his eyes again, they are wet. 

“Sir, do you hear me? Mr Holmes? Please reply.” 

There is a moment of silence. But then - then Sherlock groans and a heartbeat later, his eyes flutter open. And then there is his voice, faint, barely audible over the background noise of the intercom. “Yes. Yes, I can hear you. Sokół…?” 

“Dead, sir,” Okonjo replies to Sherlock. 

John swallows hard. 

“Can I - can I talk to him, Commander Okonjo?” John asks. 

“Hold on, sir,” Okonjo says, and then demands, “Campbell, hand Mr Holmes your mic and earpiece.” 

When the rustling from changing the earpiece and microphone from the other soldier to Sherlock has settled, John asks, his voice shakier than he would have expected, “Sherlock?” 

“Yes? John?” Sherlock sounds just the way John feels - shaken, out of breath, exhausted, close to tears. 

“Christ, Sherlock? You alright? God, I’m so fucking relieved you’re alive. Are you okay? What happened?” The words spill out of John, not caring that everybody on the intercom can hear him. He is feeling light-headed. 

“Jumped out of the van. I’m - I’m okay, I think,” Sherlock answers breathily. He groans a little. John hears the familiar noise of an ambulance’s siren approach. 

“You’re in pain? You’ll be taken to hospital now, love.” 

“I’m afraid so,” Sherlock sighs, sounding so very _Sherlock_ that John has to laugh. Then John hears the paramedics, they start talking to Sherlock and checking him. 

“Sir, we need to check your head. We have to remove your headset,” one of them says. 

“Sherlock?” John asks quickly, before Sherlock will be off. 

“Yes?” 

“You’ve made it. Sokół. You’ve finished him off.” 

There is no reply from Sherlock, just a loud exhale, a heavy sigh or something bordering a sob. 

The earpiece is taken off, John hears Sherlock reply to the paramedics from a distance and then his voice vanishes from the intercom. It feels strangely empty without him now. Okonjo is getting up when Sherlock is put on a stretcher and taken to the ambulance. 

John looks up from the screen. Reid is smiling at him. John smiles back, relief is still dancing in every cell of his body. 

Then a thought strikes him, and the fact that he is only thinking about this now shows him that he hasn’t fully grasped the events of the past hour and their consequences. 

“Mycroft, get me one of your helis. I want to go to London, to the hospital. Now. Please.” 

“It’s already on its way. You will be picked up in 20.” 

“Any news about Greg?” 

“He is taken to hospital. He will be fine.” 

John sighs once more with relief. 

“That’s - that’s good. Thank God.” 

He thinks he can hear Mycroft sigh as well, a real sigh, none of his theatrical little means to display disdain or condescendence. It seems to be full of gratitude and exhaustion. After a moment, he sounds well-composed again, all emotions are back under control. “I will meet you at the hospital, John.” 

\--- 

John finds Margaret and Matilda in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Matilda is snuggled against Margaret’s hip while Margaret is taking some raspberry jam out of the fridge. When she hears John, she turns around and looks at him. Her eyes are full of worry but as soon as she takes in the way John looks, tired, but relieved, she smiles and plants a kiss on Matilda’s head. 

“He’s made it. He jumped out of a car and he’s taken to hospital, but he’ll be ok,” John sighs, still unable to believe it. “Sokół is dead.” He exhales loudly and rubs his hand over his face. 

“Oh thank God,” Margaret says, and then adds, “That does sound like Sherlock. Thank God.” Then she puts two mugs on the table and switches the kettle on. “Tea?” 

John nods and then is distracted by Matilda, who, still sleepy, smiles at him and stretches her small arms out towards him. 

“Oh God, come here, my girl,” John says when he takes her. He presses her to his chest and buries his face in her soft light hair. She smells like - she smells just like _her_ , a mixture of the sweet scent of her skin and her organic baby shampoo. It is the most reassuring smell he could think of, it conveys innocence, safety and something utterly uncomplicated. After a moment she wriggles out of his tight embrace and plants a smashing kiss against his cheek. Then she turns towards the kitchen table and suggests, “Toast? Tilda?” 

_Tilda_ is her newest word, the absolutely most important one so far. 

“Yes, Matilda, toast for you. Come here. With raspberry jam?” 

“Yes,” she beams and John makes her a toast with jam. 

John takes a sip from his tea, it is strong and sweet. 

“Margaret, I need to go to the hospital and see Sherlock. Could you - I’m sorry, but could you just - look after Matilda? I’ll try to be back before she goes to sleep. I just, well, can’t sit here while - you know. Sherlock’s in hospital. I need to see him.” 

Margaret looks at Matilda who is taking a large bite from her toast, jam smeared to her cheeks and hands. “What do you think, Matilda? Would you like to spend the day with grandpa and me?” 

Matilda grins and exclaims, “Nan!” 

“I think that’s settled, John. Take your time in London. And give my boy a hug from me. Oh, give both my boys a hug. I know Mycroft hates it, but I think it’s well-deserved.” She smiles with a hint of glee. 

John can’t quite picture hugging Mycroft, but, to be honest, that gesture would just match the amount of gratitude he feels for him. He clears his throat. 

“They’ve done… quite an extraordinary job,” he states calmly. 

“I guess they have. They are extraordinary, both of them.” She is silent for a moment, contemplating something she doesn’t put into words. When she looks up at John again, she asks, “Would you send me a text to let me know how Sherlock is?” 

“Of course. Of course I will, Margaret.” 

He glances at his watch. “I should be running, the heli’s here any minute. Matilda, love, have fun with grandma and grandpa.” He kisses her hair again, lifts her from his lap and hands her over to Margaret. “Bye and… thank you.” 

“Hurry!” Margaret commands with a smile, nodding at the door. 

He rushes outside, grabbing his coat on the way. 

The chilly air outside the house feels clean and fresh against his skin, clearing his head from the heavy, black thoughts for the first time in weeks. It feels so much better than the running ever did. The sky is dark grey with December dawn, but it is getting lighter by the minute, orange rays of sunshine peeking through the clouds. 

The familiar _chack-chack-chack-chack_ of a helicopter’s rotor blades echoes over the field and John is buzzing with anticipation to finally, after almost seven weeks, return to London and see Sherlock again. 

\--- 

The flight to London doesn’t even take twenty minutes, but it is enough time for the sun to rise. Finally John sees the Thames and its bridges. The dome of St Paul’s and the glistening facade of the Shard and all the familiar London skyscrapers shift into his view, bathed in rosy-orange morning sunlight. 

The helicopter lands on the roof of a hospital in Central London. Mycroft is awaiting him at the landing place, standing just outside the white circle where the helicopter lands. John jumps out, ducks under the slowing rotor blades and heads towards Mycroft. 

In spite of the sleepless night, Mycroft is looking as impeccable as ever, umbrella in one hand, carrying a large dark paper bag with the other one. His face isn’t showing any emotion. John stops in front of him, hesitates - and then takes a bold step towards Mycroft and hugs him. Mycroft is even taller than Sherlock, but surprisingly, after a heartbeat of confusion he does condescend to bow down a few centimetres to John. 

_And that’s as far as it gets,_ John thinks with a smile, letting go of Mycroft after a brief moment. 

“Your mum asked me to do that. And, well, I didn’t mind, because - I am really grateful. Thank you. For… you know. Getting Sherlock out of there alive. Everything.” 

Mycroft clearly needs a second to recompose himself, then plasters a not quite genuine smile over his face and finally says, “Well, then. I presume you want to see Sherlock?” 

“Yes. How is he?” 

“He will be fine, I would say. He is conscious, he can walk and he isn’t in heavy pain. He was insulting the medical staff when the ambulance brought him here 20 minutes ago. He is waiting for the trauma CT at the moment. Just to be on the safe side.” 

On the way to Sherlock’s room he briefs John about the results. 

“I suppose the network Sokół has managed to install is heavily damaged by our strike this morning. Valadsko is still being searched for further information and evidence. I will keep you posted on the progress of the mission. I suggest, however, that Sherlock withdraws from the task force now to recover,” Mycroft states. 

John nods gratefully. He can’t imagine Sherlock going back to meetings and late night case work right now. And more than ever he realizes how much he needs to be him with him.“That’s probably a good idea. So… what’s the status concerning Sokół?” 

“We found three garbage trucks, fully prepared to detonate one tonne of ANFO each. There were two drivers assigned to every truck, and a small army composed of everything the Eastern European underworld has to offer,” Mycroft replies. 

“Why would he do that? The bombings? The army?” John asks as they enter the lift. 

“It seems Sokół indeed intended to destabilize Britain as much as possible and then take over what was left of it by organized crime. A blunt and brutal strategy, but… efficient.” 

The aseptic smell of the hospital washes over John as they step out of the lift onto the ward where Sherlock’s room is. It lacks the usual hospital hubbub entirely and John has a feeling that this place might not be exactly NHS-run. In fact, it looks a hell of a lot more like a posh private clinic of some kind. 

“We already have arrested a considerable number of members of his network. The interrogations will start this afternoon. You will get a full report as soon as we are done,” Mycroft concludes as he stops in front of one of the doors. One of Mycroft’s suit-clad men is standing next to the door, guarding it. “I shall go now. I have some more meetings to attend to.” 

Mycroft hands John the paper bag. He bids his good-bye and leaves John without waiting for a reply. 

John takes a deep breath and opens the door. 

Sherlock is sitting at the edge of the hospital bed. John remains in the open door for a moment and simply looks at him. In spite of what Mycroft has said, John has braced himself for the possibility that Sherlock might be in a bad state - but he clearly isn’t. The blood at his head and face is cleaned off. He has had a few stitches, just under his hairline. The right leg of his suit trousers is ripped open and his shirt is a mess, open and hanging from his shoulders. But apart from that and the scratches on the left side of his face, it is just him. Sherlock. 

And Sherlock is looking at John, his light eyes pent up with the emotions of the past six weeks. With worry and fear, and joy and relief and love and want, all at the same time. 

John starts to smile, he smiles until it captures his whole face. Sherlock’s lips curl up just the same. And finally John can move again and crosses the room in three hurried strides. 

Sherlock gets up from the bed, wincing at the pain in his left side as he does so. He pulls John close into a hug until their bodies are flush, a long line of contact from heads to toes. Sherlock feels solid and warm under John’s hands. So real. 

Suddenly John is breathing harder than he should. His chest is heaving. The fear of losing Sherlock as he fought his way through this mission, the fear that Matilda and John himself might be harmed is kicking in once more. John inhales sharply and lifts his head to stare at the ceiling, trying hard to stay in control and still holding on to Sherlock for dear life. 

But John can’t focus, he can’t keep his composure, because Sherlock’s breaths are coming as ragged and heavy as his own do. And because John suddenly knows that Sherlock is biting his lips right now to keep himself from starting to sob. John turns his head to kiss Sherlock’s cheeks, wet and warm, and bruised. 

“Hey,” he whispers into Sherlock’s ear, “hey, love. Sherlock. It’s okay.” 

Sherlock exhales again shakily and swallows. “I know it’s okay, John. It’s just—” 

Sherlock kisses John’s temple, he rests his cheekbone against John’s forehead. He kisses John’s temple again. He kisses the tears at the corner of his eye and his cheek. John starts planting small kisses at Sherlock’s neck, at his jawline and at whatever part of his face John can reach. For a few sweet moments it is all small, tender kisses against their faces until their lips finally, hesitantly, meet. But even then, their kisses stay light and probing, soft and careful. 

_Oh God, how soft his lips are,_ John thinks. He has thought of them so much, every fucking day at the safe house he has thought of Sherlock’s lips. He has fantasized even, but the way they feel against his is impossible to describe, to catalogue, to preserve in memory. 

And then Sherlock opens his lips the tiniest bit. John can feel that Sherlock is hungry to taste him again, to feel him this way. John opens his mouth as well, just allowing himself to be captured by Sherlock again, tasted, and breathed in. 

As Sherlock slides his tongue against and past John’s lips, John lets out a low moan in response. It is a strangled and helpless noise in the back of his throat and he is startled by how needy it sounds. Sherlock kisses him bolder now. And John kisses back, grazing his tongue with his own. 

John doesn’t know how much time passes. He gently breaks the kiss, slightly out of breath and looks at Sherlock. 

Sherlock is warm, he is alive, he is beautiful and he is there, smiling at him as if John is the most stunning and amazing thing he has ever seen. 

“You _are_ the most stunning and amazing thing I have ever seen, John,” Sherlock says, deducing John’s mind. Or maybe John has done that out loud. 

John smiles and brushes a curl out of Sherlock’s face. The stray curl reveals the cut on Sherlock’s forehead and John has a look at the neat stitches. 

“You’re ok? You hit your head when you jumped out of the van? It was looking quite… bad.” 

He immediately starts checking for symptoms of a head injury. 

“I think I hit everything. But I tried to protect my head as good as possible. And the van had slowed down considerably. It feels as if nothing’s broken. There will be further checks, though,” Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes. 

“Okay.” 

“I hope I’ll be discharged today. Then I’ll guess —” 

“Mycroft said you should take some time off to recover. And I really, really agree with him.” 

Sherlock sighs. 

“They’re searching Valadsko right now. Sokół’s dead and there have been a number of arrests already. They will manage without you. Come to Sussex with me, Sherlock. Please.” 

Sherlock hesitates for a moment. 

“I'm not sure...yet. I'd like to come with you, though.” 

“That sounds good, love.” 

They are still standing in a close embrace. Sherlock lifts his right hand and strokes John’s beard. 

“Suits you,” Sherlock whispers. 

“Does it? I’m not sure. Never got quite used to it. I’ll shave it off as soon as we don’t have to keep up the whole undercover thing anymore now.” 

“Leave it like that for a few days.” 

“Okay.” 

Sherlock kisses John again. 

“Doesn’t it tickle during kissing?” John murmurs against Sherlock’s lips. 

“Just a bit.” 

It is so intimate to talk to Sherlock like that, their foreheads touching and occasionally kissing each other in between their words. Joy is pooling in John’s belly, it is tingling in his hands and sparkling in his head like the light buzz of a drink. 

A knock at the door interrupts them. A nurse comes in. 

“Mr Holmes? I’ll take you to the CT now.” 

And this is how they spend the most of the day. John accompanies Sherlock, talks to the doctors and watches Sherlock while he is being examined. Apart from the bruises to the left arm, his ribcage, his hip and his leg, he looks thinner and pale. Too much work, too much worrying, too many cigarettes, too little food. John really hopes they will spend the holidays with Sherlock’s parents, with tons of good food and playing with Matilda. 

There is a trauma CT which includes spine, head, torso and abdomen. A nurse draws his blood for crossmatch and complete blood counts (“Just to be on the safe side, Mr Holmes!”) and he is being x-rayed, which proves that absolutely everything is fine, there isn’t even a cracked rib. There is a good bit of waiting in between and John seizes the opportunity to get some food from the hospital’s upper class equivalent to a cafeteria. He even succeeds in making Sherlock eat it. When the doctors have finished checking, Sherlock raises his eyebrows as he takes a look at his torn clothes. 

“Did Mycroft bring any new clothes for me?” 

“Oh.” John remembers the bag Mycroft has given him and at which he didn’t even have a look. “I think he might have.” 

Mycroft indeed has. Sherlock takes out a new suit and shirt and even a scarf. And there is a new phone, replacing the one that got lost at Valadsko. He gets dressed and John types out a message to Margaret. 

_Sherlock is fine, just a few stitches to a small wound on his head. Can’t believe it. How is Matilda? -John_

_She is busy making mince pies with Marcus. She insisted on adding jelly babies to the mince meat. I’m so glad to hear Sherlock is well. Are you coming home then?_

_I hope so. I’ll text you as soon as I know. -John_

His phone buzzes again, but it isn’t another message from Margaret, but from Reid. 

_Chichester just called to inform you that your order is ready. Lt Jacobson has happily volunteered to get it for you. -Cpt Reid_

John smiles and immediately bites his lips, trying to hide his traitorous glee from Sherlock. 

_Thank you so much. I owe you. -JHW,_ he replies and pockets his phone. 

At five in the afternoon, Sherlock is discharged, not without being instructed to take it very slowly for a few days and promising he would show up again in case he feels worse. 

Before they can leave, Mycroft shows up. 

“So, I hear you are being discharged, Sherlock. I have arranged for a car to take you to Sussex.” 

“Thank you, Mycroft. What is the status of the mission?” 

“Well. Our team has been thorough. The Polish authorities have been informed and Wylk and a large number of men at Sokół’s base in Warsaw have been arrested. There were thirty-eight arrests in the UK, including two men in Chichester.” 

John winces at hearing this. _So close. So fucking close._

“But with Sokół dead and Rys heavily wounded I am optimistic that the worst threat to your safety has been neutralized. Nonetheless, the safety measures at the safe house will remain until we can be sure that the network is fully dismantled.” 

Mycroft sighs. 

_He will go on working although he must be exhausted as hell,_ John thinks and he can’t help but be impressed by his devotion to duty. 

“Greg gives you his best.” 

“How is he?” John asks. 

“He told me it is just a minor head injury with a slight headache. He refused to stay at hospital” - Mycroft is rolling his eyes at this - “but he has been advised to take some time off to recover as well.” 

“He really should,” John says. 

“Indeed. Sherlock, do tell Mummy I shall be trying to join you on Christmas day.” 

“Oh, she will be pleased.” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

They stand there for a moment and the silence becomes heavy. Then Mycroft clears his throat, straightens up a bit more, and says, “Sherlock. Thank you for your collaboration.” 

Sherlock stops fidgeting with a pen he had taken up a few moments ago. He looks at his brother and stretches out his hand. “Thank you, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft takes it and after a short shake of hands, he says, “Now go. Your impatience to leave this place is getting unbearable.” 

John has watched them silently, but now he smiles and he can’t stop. He can’t stop smiling when they get into Mycroft’s car. He can’t stop as they are driving over Blackfriar’s Bridge and through the south of London. He can’t stop when Sherlock releases his safety belt, scoots over to John and leans against John. He can’t stop when Sherlock lets his head rest against John’s shoulder and falls asleep a moment later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very special thanks to @ennisnovember again - for taking so much time for pointing out what worked and what didn’t work about this chapter (and enduring several long e-mails from me), to @jbaillier for giving me medical advice on Sherlock’s injuries and how he would be examined and to @green-violin-bow for helping me with Mycroft being angry.  
> You’re the actual best.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looks at him. And he doesn’t look as if he cares much about John’s attempt at self-control. He walks to John’s chair, leaving wet footprints on the floor and John swallows.
> 
> This is Sherlock, shredding John’s best intentions to bits.
> 
> (Yes. Reunion sex.)

John must have dozed off as well. The car’s low humming noise, the semi-darkness of the late December afternoon, Sherlock being nestled to him like this and, after all, a bone-deep exhaustion seemed to have taken their toll on John somewhere on the M23. 

Although John can’t have slept very long, he wakes feeling calm and content. Warm and safe. Very close to Sherlock. It is dark now, evening, the car is going slower and the indicator is clicking. Sherlock’s head rests heavily against his shoulder and John buries his nose in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock smells amazing. 

John has wrapped his arm around Sherlock and pulls him closer. Sherlock’s body is warm against his, even through layers and layers of coats, clothes, everything. They can’t be close enough to each other. 

When John opens his eyes, they are already turning into the street where Sherlock’s parents live. He is almost disappointed that they will have to leave the car in a few minutes, the warm cocoon it has become during their ride. 

“Sherlock,” he murmurs into Sherlock’s hair. “We’ve arrived.” 

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums. 

John kisses his hair when the car stops in front of the safe house. “Come on, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sits up, blinking the sleep away. He stretches as good as he can, given that he is a man of 6” folded into the back seat of a car with yet another man. John laughs as he evades Sherlock’s outstretched left hand. “Come _on_ now, maybe Matilda’s still awake.” 

They find Margaret sitting in a chair in the safe house’s sitting room, knitting a miniature blue scarf. Margaret looks up as they enter. She gets up, crosses the room and pulls Sherlock into a tight embrace. Sherlock looks like what Mycroft must have looked like this morning when John hugged him - a little overwhelmed and not quite comfortable. He, too, bends down a few centimetres. And then, finally, he wraps one arm around her and allows himself to be held by his mother for a moment. 

“Is it all over now?” she asks against his shoulder. 

“Not yet. Mycroft is still taking down the remainders of the network,” Sherlock replies, sounding tired. 

Margaret lets go of him and smiles sadly. 

“Matilda’s asleep?” John asks. 

Margaret turns towards him and nods in the direction of Matilda’s bedroom. “Yes, she nearly fell asleep over dinner. I had to put her to bed half an hour ago. Matilda helped me making pizza. There’s some in the oven for you. I bet you haven’t eaten properly in days, Sherlock. And on the table are some some of your old pyjamas and shirts.” 

Sherlock tilts his head an creases his brows, looking very much as if he was about to say something along the lines of _please, mummy,_ but he doesn’t. 

“I’ll be going, boys. See you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah! Thanks for the pizza,” John says, because he is grateful for her keeping them from starving. And for leaving them to themselves now. 

\--- 

After Margaret has left, Sherlock takes off his coat and suit jacket and drops them on one of the chairs. He walks through John’s bedroom to Matilda’s room. John takes off his own coat and shoes and follows a minute later. 

Sherlock is sitting on the floor right next to her bed, leaning against the wall, and watches her. 

“She’s grown, John,” he whispers in amazement. 

“Yeah, she has,” John laughs. 

“Her hair…” - he strokes Matilda’s silky, soft curls - “is longer. And her pyjamas almost don’t fit her any more, she will need a new pair.” 

“I guess your mum has already taken care of that.” 

“And… Matilda likes to draw.” 

“Yes. Quite a lot in fact.” 

Sherlock traces her small fingers, stained with colours from her felt-tip pens, with his own and so much longer fingers. “And she’s left-handed, John, like you,” Sherlock murmurs, lifting neither his eyes nor his hand off the little girl’s sleeping form. 

“She is.” 

John smiles, but he doesn’t add anything else, because anything he wants to say now might sound utterly soppy. Seeing Sherlock so smitten with Matilda does something to his heart he can’t quite put into words without making a total fool of himself. 

After another minute of quietly adoring the two of them, John clears his throat and asks, “Dinner?” 

When Sherlock doesn’t react, he adds, “Sherlock, come. You should eat something. You’ll have her all day tomorrow.” 

They have some pizza on the sofa in the sitting room. Sherlock first pretends not to be hungry and only nibbles it. But then sheer starvation gets the better of him and he helps himself to another piece of pizza _twice._

Finally Sherlock puts his plate down. He looks at John and the air between them is growing heavy. Suddenly it is just the two of them, here, now. 

“I think I might need a shower.” 

“Okay,” John says, trying to sound casual. Ever since their cuddled-up car ride, he has become achingly aware of Sherlock’s body, of his proximity. John needs him, he needs to touch him, he needs to do a hundred things to him, all of them preferably tonight. 

_A bit not god, going down on him while his whole body is one giant bruise, Watson. After he has been abducted, drugged, threatened with death and after having jumped out a driving van._

Sherlock vanishes into the bathroom. John cleans up the kitchen, puts their plates into the dishwasher and washes the baking tray in the sink. He is settling into a chair with his laptop, trying not to think about Sherlock naked in the shower when the bathroom door opens. 

John looks up. Sherlock is wearing a towel around his hips, his hair is still wet, a curly mess that he has quickly rubbed dry with his towel. The bruises and scratches on the left side of his body are still red and fresh. They will start to turn into a dark shade of purple over the next days. 

John licks his lips, reminding himself of his intention to refrain from dragging Sherlock to their bed at the exact minute he gets out of the shower. 

Sherlock looks at him. And he doesn’t look as if he cares much about John’s attempt at self-control. He walks to John’s chair, leaving wet footprints on the floor and John swallows. 

This is Sherlock, shredding John’s best intentions to bits. Determined and hungry. Beautiful and devastating. 

Sherlock unceremoniously takes both John’s hands into his own. John rises from the chair and is being pulled into a kiss that doesn’t resemble this afternoon’s kisses at all. Instead it is open-mouthed from the start, passionate, and it is playful. It is a little relentless in its force and John gives in with a little moan. 

John breaks the kiss, already out of breath and tries, “Should we really…? I mean, your head… everything that’s happened today-” 

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Sherlock rumbles. 

They make it to the bedroom and once they are standing in front of the bed, John doesn’t even quite remember how. They are standing close and John looks at Sherlock’s heaving chest, droplets of water still caught in the fine hair. He leans in and kisses them away. 

_Here… and here… and here._

He brushes his lips over one of Sherlock’s nipples, eliciting a gasp from Sherlock. He does it again, eager to hear that noise once more. Sherlock _does_ gasp. John licks it, and sucks and because it might be a brilliant way to make Sherlock make even more of those noises, he catches it between his teeth and holds it. Sherlock shivers and groans when John sucks again and then lets go of it with a kiss. 

Sherlock cups John’s face with his hands and looks at him from under his eyelashes. He kisses John messily, biting his lip and sucking it. Now it is John who is groaning. 

Impatiently, Sherlock starts unbuttoning John’s shirt. He curses under his breath when the buttons at the cuffs don’t slip through their holes at his first try. 

“Okay, okay, let me do this,” John says breathlessly while Sherlock undoes the buckle of his belt, his zip and slides a hand into his pants. 

“Oh my God, Sherlock-” John pants as Sherlock is wrapping his hand around John’s cock and the sensation is _bloody everything,_ “you’re not wasting any time, are you?” 

“I’ve wasted seven weeks,” Sherlock breathes against John’s lips, his words turning into a plea, “Don’t make me wait any longer.” 

“I fucking won’t,” John says, closing his eyes, unable to move, because what Sherlock is doing with his thumb at the head of his cock is rendering him incapable of doing anything but melting, right here, in front of this bed. 

Sherlock shoves John’s shirt down his shoulders with his other hand. He gently pushes him towards the bed while trying to pull down John’s jeans. John helps him and then they are on the bed, naked. 

Sherlock is lying on his back, grimacing with pain as he lies down. But he pulls John on top of him nonetheless. Somewhere in the process, the towel gets lost and Sherlock spreads his legs, allowing John to settle down between them. John kisses Sherlock again, slow and teasing. He starts grinding his cock slowly against Sherlock’s, just enough to give them a bit of that desperately needed friction. 

“Lube,” Sherlock demands, utterly out of breath. 

John reaches for the drawer of the bedside cabinet, grabs the lube and pours a generous amount on his hand to spread it on both their cocks. Sherlock is looking at him, dazed with affection and want. 

John licks another teasing kiss into Sherlock’s mouth. Then he puts one of his hands against the headboard for leverage and starts to roll his hips, rutting his cock against Sherlock’s. He is getting drunk at the sight of Sherlock squirming underneath him, so beautiful in spite of his wounds. 

Sherlock takes up his rhythm and wraps his legs around John’s waist, claiming him back and holding on to him at the same time. _You’re mine,_ this gesture says, _mine, mine, mine._

There is nothing but the sensation of their cocks sliding against each other, everything else has been wiped off John’s mind. John moves faster and harder, just a bit, slowly increasing his pace. Sherlock is panting underneath him, he is watching John, taking him in. He is breathing through his open mouth, hard, and John can’t help but stare at his lover’s plush lower lip, wet from kissing. 

John wants to take them to that place where they never want to stop and desperately need to come at the same time. He wants to make Sherlock let go of everything. He wants to watch him come undone, to surrender himself to the sensation. And he is going to take them there slowly, devouring every second of it. He will— 

There is a panicky, high-pitched cry from the adjacent bedroom. 

And another one. 

John stops dead and Sherlock narrows his eyes. 

“Matilda. I’ll just…” John sighs, wiping his hands at the duvet and climbs off Sherlock and off the bed. He slips into his boxers and his t-shirt while he hurries to Matilda’s bedroom. Sherlock is still lying on the bed, still panting, a faint sheen of sweat covering his skin. 

Matilda is standing in her bed, her fists clinging to the railing and she is crying. John lifts her up. 

“Hey, love, you’ve had a nightmare. Everything’s okay now. I’m here, Matilda, I’m here.” 

He is still a bit out of breath, still sobering up when he soothes her as he holds her tightly pressed against his chest. Matilda rubs her eyes. She looks at him, eyes still wet and shiny and she is clearly puzzled. He gets her pacifier from her bed and she gladly takes it. 

“There you go, Matilda. It’s alright, my little love. See? Better?” 

He smiles at her, kisses her and she nudges against his chest. 

Sherlock enters her bedroom, wearing a pair of his old pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. His cheeks and lips are slightly reddened. 

_God, so gorgeous,_ John thinks. 

“Look who’s there, love. Papa,” John whispers. 

Matilda blinks twice, still confused. Sherlock bends down and kisses her hair, damp from sleep and crying. 

“Hey little bumble. I’ve _missed_ you,” he rumbles and strokes her back and John’s arm. “Missed you so much, my firefly.” 

Her eyes brighten up and she smiles, half-concealed by the pacifier. 

“You want to hold her?” John asks. 

“If she wants me to.” 

“Come here, love. Papa wants to give you a cuddle.” John plugs Matilda from his chest and hands her over into Sherlock’s arms. 

“Papa,” she says, muffled by her pacifier. 

“Yes, bumble, I’m here.” 

Sherlock kisses her hair. He kisses her wet cheeks and wipes the tears away with his thumb. She rest her head against his collarbone, allowing herself to be held and comforted. 

For the second time this night John just watches Sherlock and Matilda. Sherlock walks up and down her bedroom, rocking her gently. Her eyes are open and dark. She is very calm, the nightmare is forgotten and soon she will fall asleep again. 

Sherlock is hugging her, taking in her presence, her scent, her weight against his body. The dimly lit room is silent except for Sherlock’s whispery barefoot steps and the low breathing of three people, one quicker than the other two. 

It is still a weird and fascinating thing. Sherlock is his lover, his partner and so much more than he could ever put into words. And Sherlock is Matilda’s father as well, even officially so by now. 

There are so many ways of loving someone. John still wants to pin him down to the bed and make him come. And yet he wants to hold Sherlock while he is holding their daughter. He wants to spend his life with him and Matilda and he knows he will be mad at Sherlock sometimes. He wants all of this and he will love Sherlock all the time. 

It is a miracle to him that he feels all of this for Sherlock. 

_Not because Sherlock isn’t the right person for this, God, no, quite the contrary. It’s just… I never would have believed I’d love someone this way. In such a complex way. And just so fucking much._

He watches Sherlock, carrying Matilda around in her room, gently stroking her back with his large hand. 

When John speaks again after a while, when Matilda’s eyes have fluttered shut and she is falling asleep again, his voice croaks. 

“How - how does it feel? Being her father?” 

Sherlock turns and looks at John. Something sparks in his eyes - joy and, yes, _pride_ \- and Sherlock whispers, “Beyond… comparison.” 

\--- 

When Sherlock has laid Matilda back into her bed and the shift in her position doesn’t wake her again, more than half an hour has passed. John is still waiting for him, standing at the double door to his bedroom. Sherlock looks at him from across the room. He is looking tired, and there is something else to him. Happiness, yes. But more than that. Something deeply touched. 

They take off the their shirts and pants and tumble into a close embrace on the bed, lying on their sides, facing each other. 

They look at each other, they kiss. For a long time. 

Sherlock runs his fingers down John’s spine, rising goosebumps in their wake. John pulls them closer together. He desires, he _loves_ Sherlock so much, it is going to crack him open, to break him. 

He can’t stop touching Sherlock and he needs him close, feel him with his whole body. He is so grateful he can hold him in his arms again, to inhale his scent and to make him shiver. 

And he does make Sherlock shiver. A lot. He touches his cock and he is being touched by him in return. John makes small moans and whispered _Oh_ s escape Sherlock’s mouth. He makes Sherlock shut his eyes and shut down his brain. 

Their hands move faster and Sherlock wraps his free hand around John’s shoulders and kisses him. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of ever letting John go again. They start thrusting into each other’s hands and their kisses become sloppy. 

Sherlock groans into John’s mouth when he comes. John kisses him hard, he kisses into this groan, he feels Sherlock’s orgasm with his whole body. 

John comes about three thrusts later and he absolutely wasn’t prepared for the intensity of his climax. He _is_ cracked open and broken by the sudden flood of emotion. It feels a little frightening and he stifles some of the more desperate noises he is about to make. Sherlock kisses his forehead, he kisses and kisses him, until the shivers have subsided. 

_I love you so fucking much, Sherlock, I’ll lose my mind over you, with you, whatever._  
_I want to lose my mind with you. I love you. I want everything with you._  
_You, Sherlock, always you._

\--- 

Sherlock wakes. It is dark, he is disoriented and alarmed. But then his mind arranges the incoming sensations - warmth, someone’s arm draped across his chest, someone’s breathing. Panic loosens its icy grip. 

_John._

_I am with John, at the safe house, Matilda sleeps next door._

_I’ve escaped Sokół. He is dead._

John is spooning him, wearing nothing but his pair of boxers (in case Matilda wakes up again, he neither wants to walk over naked nor hurry into his clothes). John is fast asleep. 

Sherlock kisses John’s arm and feels his fine hair under his lips, he strokes John’s strong, small hands. 

He closes his eyes and sleep claims him back. 

— 

John wakes. 

_Matilda… crying?_

He listens for a moment in the darkness, confining his breath to his chest until he hears her gentle snoring from the other room. 

_No._

Sherlock has turned. Must have turned. Must have woken John. It takes him a moment to recall yesterday’s events. 

_Sherlock is here._

_Sokół is dead._

John can breathe again. 

Sherlock has crouched his face against John’s chest, entangling him with his arms and one leg. The relief about Sherlock being here hasn’t completely settled in. John knows he is, but he doesn’t quite feel it yet. With the possibility of danger lurking over them as long as the network isn’t fully destroyed, it is impossible to let go of that feeling of being in danger, of the worries, of the tension. Even after that it will take some time until they are back to normal, some reminding each other that this is over. 

John strokes Sherlock’s curls, loving the way they feel under his fingers. The short hair at his nape. The warm skin. He trails down, across his shoulder blades. 

Sherlock’s shoulders are broader than they were when they first met. Or at least it feels that way. His body is still lean and muscular, but the passed years have softened the edges of his body very slightly. Added a few lines. And scars. Sherlock’s recklessness has been eroded a little. 

_He is more caring now. God, he cares so much. But then… he always has. I just never really saw it for what it was._

He dozes off again. 

— 

One of them shifts. The other one shifts as well. They bump into each other, there are sleep-muffled grunts and hums, only half-concealed smiles. 

Sherlock feels hazy, it is warm under the duvet. John radiates so much heat. Sherlock is sweating and so is John, their skin is moist where they touch. It feels incredible. Sherlock’s body is responding to John’s proximity. He is hard. And so is John. 

Sherlock pushes back the duvet a little, allowing the air to cool them. John holds him in a sleepy embrace, his good arm heavy on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock carefully strokes John’s cheek, the beard feeling surprisingly soft to his hands. He doesn’t see much more than John’s contours in the grey shadows of the very early morning. 

John is half-awake just like he is, Sherlock can tell. He brushes a fingertip across John’s nipples. John sighs. He runs his fingers down to John’s belly, circles it and slowly slides them further down, tracing John’s dark blond hair down to the waistband of his boxers. 

John is actually very hard. Sherlock slips his hand into John’s pants and takes him into his hand, feeling the heavy weight of his cock, and strokes him. He buries his nose in the crook of John’s neck. John smells intoxicating. Sherlock has always loved his smell, especially like this - warm, heavy and earthy, a not so faint note of sweat and sex. He kisses John’s neck. 

He strokes him slowly, teasingly, not breaking the sleepy silence. John sighs again, barely audible, melting into the touch. 

_This is for you, John. I know you’ve missed it, too._

A few moments later, John opens his eyes and Sherlock is seeing raw hunger there. John pulls down Sherlock’s pants and his own. He lifts Sherlock up, careful with his bruised left side, until Sherlock is straddling him. He starts running his hands from Sherlock’s arse cheeks to his cleft, back again and further down. 

“Matilda still asleep?” John rumbles sleepily. 

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. 

“Good,” John says. “You know. She hasn’t been up before seven the last couple of days.” 

“It’s 20 past six.” 

“God, then let’s do this.” 

John watches Sherlock as he starts working him open. Sherlock _feels_ watched, observed and very, very naked. It is perfect. 

After all these weeks it feels like a first time again. They are both a little impatient, a little nervous. Excited. Needy. 

Sherlock squirms when John hits his prostate and he cannot possibly expected to wait any minute longer. He sits up, positions himself and slowly sinks down on John’s cock. 

He closes his eyes and just feels for a moment. He has tried to catalogue this feeling, but the reality of it crushes his memory, oscillating between _too much_ and _I need more_. 

John groans. 

“God, Sherlock, can I… can I move? Fuck, I… I need to move. You feel—” 

Sherlock bows down and stifles John’s questions with a kiss. He slowly starts rolling his hips and John lets out a shivering, helpless sigh. They are breathing hard, eyes open and watching each other as they unravel. There is sweat slick skin, voiceless panting and fingernails scratching over backs, leaving red marks in their trails. 

John crashes Sherlock into a kiss when he feels Sherlock is getting close. Sherlock bites John’s lip when he comes an instant later, sending John over the edge with this mixture of stinging pain and bliss. 

\--- 

Sherlock is having a shower when Matilda wakes. John takes her up from her bed and once she is fully awake, she is cheery and pokes at John’s nose to make him laugh. And John does laugh. A lot. He tickles her in return until she is squealing with laughter and she pokes him a few more times for good measure. He can’t remember when he has last laughed that much. 

When he catches his breath, he says, “Papa’s here. Do you remember? He said hello to you last night.” 

Matilda looks at him in amazement. Clearly she doesn’t remember a thing. 

“Yeah, pa,” John confirms. “He’s just taking a shower.” 

Matilda grins. She points towards the bathroom, leaning forward with all the weight of her small body, like she always does when she wants John to go in a certain direction. 

The bathroom is warm, condensation is fogging the mirror. 

“So… let’s have a look, love,” John opens the glass door to the shower cubicle. 

Sherlock is rinsing his hair. He has neither heard John and Matilda coming in nor John opening the cubicle’s door and so John and Matilda get a full load of water from the shower head. Matilda squeals and it is only then that Sherlock notices them. 

“Oi! Watch out, Sherlock,” John says, laughing. 

Sherlock is alarmed at first, but then Matilda is laughing, too. He turns off the water and wipes his dripping hair out of his face. 

“Pa!” Matilda exclaims, giggling. And then she adds, a little reproachful, “Tilda _wet_!” 

“Yes, bumble, I’m afraid you’re quite wet.” Sherlock smirks. “Oh, come here, little love,” he adds, leaning in and kissing her forehead. 

“Wet wet wet!” she says, wiping her hands over Sherlock’s face and into his hair, all dripping with water. John has a hard job holding her and just before they tumble into the shower, he says, “Okay, let’s get you dressed, love. Your pyjamas are soggy.” 

Matilda won’t let go of Sherlock, she is clinging to his neck now. He kisses Sherlock and finally manages to pluck her little arms away from Sherlock. 

— 

When they all have changed into dry clothes, Matilda insists on sitting on Sherlock’s lap during breakfast. She helps him spreading jam on a slice of toast (a considerable amount of jam ending up on her face and hands, on Sherlock and on the table). 

Later she makes a fuss over wanting to have tea as well - which John denies her after giving Sherlock a pointed look which is supposed to tell him that giving a toddler caffeine is _a bit not good_. She gets half a cup of milk instead and happily pours two teaspoons of sugar into it, imitating Sherlock’s habit of drinking very sweet tea. 

“Now, that’s enough, Matilda,” John says, stretching out his hand to put the sugar bowl out of her reach. He brushes Sherlock’s hand, who was doing the same. When their eyes meet, a spark of joy runs through John’s body, reminding him that Sherlock is really, really here. 

“No!” Matilda tries to argue, but Sherlock manages to distract her by taking her to the sofa and reading a few books to her. 

John is pottering about in the kitchen. He is enjoying the simple blessing of this morning - such as not having to keep Matilda busy and happy while trying to get other things done. Such as watching Sherlock and Matilda cuddled up on the sofa, reading _Hugless Douglas_ to her for the umpteenth time. Such as remembering the rather spectacular sex Sherlock and he have had last night and less than two hours ago. 

Some time later, Mycroft sends a report. The number of arrests has risen to 57 and the first wave of interrogations is over. The computers confiscated at Valadsko’s are still being analyzed. The results will hopefully lead to more arrests throughout Britain and Eastern Europe. It looks as if Sherlock had deduced correctly what Sokół had been up to. John doesn’t dare hoping. 

And this is how they spend the morning, playing with Matilda and lounging in the house. John is stealing kisses and touches whenever possible. Before they can make up their minds about what to have for lunch, Margaret sends a text asking if they would like to have lunch with them. 

Sherlock gets another tight hug from his mother and his father pats him on the shoulder, clearly relieved about Sherlock’s presence. Matilda sits on Sherlock’s lap again while eating. She is a little offended that he declines the chips she offers him from her own plate in favour of Margaret’s mushroom and bacon risotto. 

Sherlock smiles at her, but at the corners of his eyes, the worries are still lurking. John can see Sherlock is trying to be happy, but he isn’t. Not entirely. 

\--- 

After lunch, Matilda is having a nap in her room and Sherlock falls asleep on the sofa. He didn’t even close his laptop, so John carefully takes it from him and places it on the low table. When Sherlock doesn’t even stir in his sleep, John crosses the room to walk over to the surveillance room. 

“Hello, Captain Reid,” John says upon opening the door. 

“Sir, good to see you. I hear you’ve brought Mr Holmes,” Reid smiles. 

“Yes. I’m… very glad.” 

“So are we, sir.” 

“Captain, you said that Jacobson went to Chichester yesterday,” John starts. 

Reid interrupts him, “Yes, of course. Here you are. You’ll find the invoice inside the bag.” 

He hands John a small black paper bag, the shop’s logo printed in silver on its sides. 

“Yeah… thank you. Thank you so much. Not exactly what the tax payer’s money is meant for, SIS officers getting…” 

“Good luck, Dr Watson,” Reid says with a huge smile, and John is glad he is being cut him off, he felt this was getting a little awkward. 

John nods at Reid and leaves, strides through the flat without being seen by Sherlock and hides the bag in his bedside cabinet. 

\--- 

The remainder of 22 December and the next day have passed in a sweet blur of sleeping, eating, playing with Matilda and staying as close to Sherlock as physically possible. 

At night, they fall asleep after watching bad telly on a laptop, after sex that makes Sherlock’s eyes go wide in wonder and forget his exhaustion for a while. 

It is the day before Christmas and they finally have breakfast in bed. John had been looking forward to it and he and Matilda busied themselves in the kitchen, preparing toast and tea and everything. 

But before they could even start eating, Mycroft calls. Sherlock puts his phone on speaker. Both Sherlock and John are holding their breath while listening. The task force was making good progress: Another ten people have been arrested earlier last night. Mycroft, Greg and other members of the task force have immediately started interrogating them, which lead to three flats in London being searched and more confiscated laptops. In Warsaw, Wylk had finally given in and confessed all the details about both Sokół’s attack on the City and his network. Subsequently, the remaining men and women from the network were arrested. And finally, _finally_ Mycroft declares the network dismantled and the mission to be over. And a success. 

_It’s over. It’s - over!_ John grins, he can’t believe it. 

Mycroft informs them that, given the fact that the holidays are just about to begin, Reid and his team will leave tomorrow. And finally, John, Sherlock and Matilda are given clearance to leave the house. 

“Bloody fantastic, Mycroft,” John says. 

Sherlock rapidfires some questions. How many weapons were found, did Wylk admit to have killed the Warsaw agent and a few other things John can’t find himself to care about because he is too _fucking happy_. 

When they end the call, Sherlock’s sudden blast of energy seems to have evaporated. He sits down on the bed again, while Matilda carries all her books to Sherlock’s and John’s bed as if nothing had happened. She hands one of them to Sherlock, looking at him expectantly. 

“Come here, bumble, let’s read that,” Sherlock dutifully replies. He reads the book to her and takes a few bites from his toast, but doesn’t even finish half of it. After the third book, he kisses Matilda’s hair and says, “Would you mind going on reading, John?” 

“No, of course not,” John says, taking Matilda from Sherlock and placing her on his own lap. From the corner of his eye, he registers Sherlock looking out of the window, lost in thought. Sometimes it looks as if the joy about being back together has vanished completely. 

_He’s tired,_ John thinks, trying to calm himself. That tiredness is tinged with a sadness that feels oddly familiar. _Exhausted. Who wouldn’t be. I’ll have to keep an eye on it._

After John has got Matilda dressed, he finds her standing at the door to the Holmes’s house. She is barely able to reach the door handle, but she is clinging to it, and impatiently demanding _nan!_ And so John lifts her up and carries her over to her grandparents’, who gladly agree to spend the morning with her. 

“Sherlock, I think I’ll go for a run,” John calls when he comes back to the safe house. 

“Do that,” Sherlock replies. He is still in bed. And he is barely able to keep his eyes open. 

“Tired?” 

“Hmmmm.” 

“Have a nap then. I’ll be back in an hour.” 

— 

John comes back to an empty bedroom and the sound of water running. He is sweaty and his muscles are throbbing, but he feels good. Alive. Free. Exhausted, but happy. 

John goes straight to the bathroom, peeling off his damp running clothes on the way. Sherlock is taking a shower. 

“Are you finished, love? I need a shower as well!” John shouts against the noise of the water. He peels his socks off his feet and bins them in the laundry hamper, together with his shirt, vest and trousers. Sherlock doesn’t reply. 

After a minute John opens the glass door of the shower cubicle. Sherlock is standing in the spray of the shower, eyes closed, motionlessly leaning against the wall. His bruises are darkening, covering the left side of his body. 

“You alright, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock’s chest is heaving, but he doesn’t say a word. He opens his eyes and finds John’s gaze. Something about the way Sherlock looks at him alarms John, something is very, very much _not_ alright. 

John pulls down his pants and gets into the shower. He puts his arms around Sherlock, who feels warm and wet and winces slightly at the touch of John’s cool skin. Sherlock lets his head sink down against John’s shoulder and John feels his heavy breathing. 

He digs a hand into Sherlock’s wet hair and holds him close. 

“What is it, love?” John whispers, kissing the stripe of skin behind Sherlock’s ear. He feels Sherlock’s ribcage rise and fall against his own. 

The spray of warm water envelops them and fills the cubicle with a soft rushing sound, shutting off the outside world. It is running down their faces, Sherlock’s still buried in John’s shoulder, and over the skin of their bellies and backs, some of it knotted with scars, some of it soft. It is dripping down from their arms that are holding each other, meandering in rivulets down their legs, pooling at their feet. 

“I heard a man die,” Sherlock finally breathes. “I could just as well have been there. It could just as well have been me,” Sherlock nothing but whispers, John almost can’t hear him. 

His gut clenches. This is getting dangerously close to his own fear of losing Sherlock. Hearing a shot, seeing him fall, knowing he will never look into his eyes again, or touch his warm skin. 

_Sherlock is here, he’s alive._

John kisses Sherlock’s skin again, the same spot, just there, behind his ear, behind his beautiful ear that heard Novak dying. 

“I can’t stop thinking about it, John. I can’t stop _hearing_ it.” 

John strokes the back of Sherlock’s head as if to calm down his mind from the outside of his skull. 

“And I feel guilty because-” His voice breaks at the emotions raging inside of him. “I’m so glad it wasn’t… _me_.” Quick huffs of Sherlock’s warm breath brush across John’s wet skin. “I’ve been ready to die for you, John.” 

John feels Sherlock swallow. 

“I still am. But I think I’m more… helpful to you alive. To Matilda. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to lose you.” Sherlock’s voice is almost gone. 

John kisses him again, his soft earlobe, then the spot right underneath his jaw. 

“You’re not going to die, love.” 

He holds Sherlock tighter and feels him leaning heavier against him as he relaxes into John’s arms. 

“We’re alive, Sherlock, we’re _alive._ I’ll… I’ll stay with you, Sherlock. No one will take you away from me. Or from Matilda. Or Matilda from us.” He kisses Sherlock’s jaw and his cheek. “You hear me? This needs time to heal, Sherlock. It takes time.” A kiss to his neck. “A lot of time, maybe. We’ll be okay. We _are_ okay.” 

John holds him for a long time, allowing Sherlock to understand that he is being held, that he isn’t alone. That he never is alone. 

John has no idea how much time it takes until sadness and guilt loose their icy grip on Sherlock. But with that John feels Sherlock’s strength returning. 

Their bodies are flushed, and closer than before, and it is getting charged with energy. Sherlock starts kissing John’s shoulder, right there where he has put his head. Light brushes of lips turn into open-mouthed caresses. John closes his eyes as he feels the small swirls of Sherlock’s tongue against his skin. 

As if to prove to his own despair that he is indeed alive, Sherlock starts touching John. His arms, his sides. The tender skin on his hip bones. Still all small movements, but there is this energy to it. His touch is buzzing with life and it is going straight to John’s groin. 

John strokes Sherlock’s hair, his cheekbones and his lips with his right hand. He _wants_ him, the need to have him is getting stronger and stronger. He doesn't try to understand how sadness, guilt and comfort can be so close to arousal and want. He pushes his finger past Sherlock's lips into the wet heat of his mouth. 

Sherlock lifts his head and sucks John's fingertips. Sherlock's gaze meets John's, Sherlock's light eyes still half-closed and droplets of water caught in his eyelashes. It sends a fresh flash of arousal down John's whole body. John needs to kiss him, he claims him back, messily and open-mouthed, tongues and fingers, and water from the shower spraying over their faces. 

Sherlock moans into the kiss. He sounds helpless and strangled. John needs more, he needs him. He slides his hands down Sherlock's strong and hurt body. He feels his hard nipples and Sherlock gasps into his mouth.

Sherlock is hard and his cock presses against John's belly, hot and leaking. John wraps his left hand around it, all wet and slippery and _perfect_. He gives it a few long, firm strokes, he wants to feel Sherlock's arousal. He rubs circles over the head of Sherlock's cocks, feeling Sherlock's whole body twitch and desperate groans escape Sherlock's mouth. 

While their fingers are getting wrinkled from being in the shower for far too long, they kiss, they touch. They are panting into each others mouths and getting closer and closer to the edge of orgasm, feeling angrily and stubbornly alive, defiant in the face of fate, of life, everything. 

Just as John is about to get light-headed from want, Sherlock seems to read his mind and turns around, bracing himself against the tiled shower wall. In unspoken agreement John grabs the bottle of baby lotion from the sink next to the shower cubicle and pours some of it into his hand. He runs his fingers down Sherlock's cleft and over the sensitive ring of muscle. Sherlock presses into his touch. John takes his time and finally gently pushes one, two, and then three fingers inside him, slick with water and lotion. Sherlock groans and hisses and bites his wrist. 

John is breathing hard and ragged. His cock is aching and desperate for friction and the sight of his fingers entering Sherlock's body and slowly pulling out again is almost enough to completely undo him. 

When John removes his fingers, a shudder run through Sherlock's body. John carefully pushes his cock into the tight wet heat and goes still for a moment, holding Sherlock's narrow hips. There is nothing but their breathing, their pounding hearts and the water on their skin. When he starts fucking Sherlock, there, against the wall of the shower, Sherlock lets out a loud, ragged moan. 

John sees the scars on Sherlock’s back, every single one of them. It always hurts John to see them, but the pain has eased with time until they have only become a symbol of how far they are willing to go to protect each other. And that it takes fucking more than this to defeat them. 

He thrusts into Sherlock’s body, slowly and steadily building to a faster pace, riding that wave that promises to become a crashing orgasm. Sherlock groans, curses alternating with John’s name. They stay at that wordless high between escalating arousal and climax for countless circles of rolling their hips against each other, searching for friction and bliss. 

John feels the muscles inside of Sherlock clenching around his cock when Sherlock finally comes with a hoarse cry, taking him over the edge as well. He closes his eyes and lets himself be dragged into oblivion. 

A few moments later, they collapse on the on the narrow square of tiles on the floor of the shower cubicle, still breathing hard. Sherlock pulls John’s arms around his own body, kissing his hands while their chests are still heaving. 

“Better?” John asks in the shelter of the shower spray, still locking out the world outside and all noises from behind the glass walls of the cubicle. 

“Much,” Sherlock replies in a low voice. 

They sit like that for a long time, John wrapped around Sherlock, and Sherlock kissing John's fingers, and hands and arms. 

“There’ll be a memorial service for Novak and the killed driver after the holidays. I need to go there,” Sherlock says, finally breaking the silence. 

“I’ll be going with you, Sherlock.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to @isitandwonder for a very creative brainstorming session about what Sherlock and John would do when they finally… well… do it. It’s been a pleasure.
> 
> Also, the shower at the safe house seems to have an inexhaustible supply of hot water. Now aren't our boys lucky? :D
> 
> \---
> 
> For IRL reasons, I couldn't keep up anything resembling my usual writing routine since the beginning of August and as much as I hate it, it will only get a little calmer around mid-October. This means I'm still working on chapter 14 - and won't be able to post it on Monday next week. It might take some time, but I'm on it and will keep you posted (check my tumblr at alexaprilgarden.tumblr.com if you want to).
> 
> Good thing is, chapter 15 is nearly finished. :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The taste of whisky still lingers on John’s tongue, peat and smoke and a faint burn of alcohol. He feels warm. Somehow one of the Holmes’s plaid blankets ended up draped over his legs and socked feet and the whisky has lit a pleasant glow in his belly. He has had enough to feel a little drowsy, so he lets his head rest back against the armchair, listening to the soft rumble of Sherlock’s voice without listening to what he says.

John stretches. He is slouching comfortably into one of the armchairs. The fire is crackling lowly in the fireplace and bathes the room in soft golden light. Sherlock and Marcus are talking in low voices, sometimes falling into an easy silence for long moments. Matilda has been asleep for almost four hours now, Margaret has put her to bed since she was having a sleepover at her nan’s and grandpa’s on the last night in Sussex. Margaret is sitting on the sofa, reading the new book Mycroft has given her as a Christmas present. 

The taste of whisky still lingers on John’s tongue, peat and smoke and a faint burn of alcohol. He feels warm. Somehow one of the Holmes’s plaid blankets ended up draped over his legs and socked feet and the whisky has lit a pleasant glow in his belly. He has had enough to feel a little drowsy, so he lets his head rest back against the armchair, listening to the soft rumble of Sherlock’s voice without listening to what he says. 

He glances at the clock. Twenty minutes until midnight. Sherlock and he have decided to stay in Sussex until New Year’s, skipping the madness and the noise of fireworks and drunk party-goers in London entirely. Tomorrow they will drive home on quiet, empty roads and motorways while everyone is sleeping off their hangovers. 

London. Baker Street. John is looking forward to going back, to going home. 

This week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve was peaceful, a row of lazy days filled with sleeping and eating. The three of them were having walks at the beach, snuggled into warm coats and thick scarves against the icy breeze from the sea, having hot tea and Christmas cookies afterwards. They have had an actual and much needed vacation. John had realized that being away from 221b for a while instead of catching up immediately on what had been their normal life might be a good idea. It might help to process what has happened. 

Reid, Jacobson and the other officers had left on Christmas Day and the safety measures had been lifted. They finally were allowed to come and go as they pleased and the house had gradually turned from a safe house to being just the house next door to Sherlock’s parents. A house in Sussex, a twenty minute ride from the beach, in a cozy small town. With Sherlock around the place turned into a familiarly cluttered state within less than a day. Even though Sherlock hadn’t brought any luggage, objects kept appearing in the house and ended up scattered all over the coffee table or piling up next to the sofa. Things like books from his childhood bedroom he read to Matilda, dressing gowns, half empty tea mugs and his violin, which John suspects to have been shipped here on Mycroft’s behalf. 

John can’t believe how much Sherlock has slept throughout these last days. Sherlock slept curled up in their bed long after John had got up with Matilda. He slept on the sofa, one of Matilda’s books splayed open on his belly while Matilda played on the floor beside him. He slept naked in John’s arms. 

It gives John a sting to his heart to think of how little rest Sherlock must have got while they had still been on the mission. Sleep and rest have made the darkness slowly ebb away from Sherlock. That and being with John. Murmured kisses in passing and holding his body at night, fighting off the fear that crept in when the house was silent and Sherlock got lost in the dark, waking up to an unfamiliar room. Comforting each other and having sex, both daringly intimate while allowing each other to catch glances at their deepest feelings, as well as playful and easy, having them in breathless smiles over the pleasure they were giving each other. As strain and anxiety had eased off Sherlock, John’s own thoughts had grown lighter and his body stopped holding the tension of the past weeks. 

Next to the fireplace, Sherlock and his father have fallen silent once again and Sherlock is having a sip from his whisky. He swallows it slowly, savouring its intensity and the countless different aromas he is probably detecting in the amber liquid. He must be a little drunk, just like John, or deep in thought. He plays with the slim band of metal, turning it around on his long finger. He isn’t quite used to it yet, at least not when he isn’t thinking about it. 

John is looking forward to London: He feels ready to resume something resembling normality — or to build a new normality altogether. A new normality where absolute safety might, in the end, remain an illusion. Still they will always do their best to ensure the upmost degree of safety — and, with Mycroft’s aid, they have the means to do so. John knows as well as Sherlock and Mycroft that it might prove impossible to eliminate every threat Mary’s or Moriarty’s past or just their own lives hold for them. 

John’s heart drums a few quick beats in his chest and gradually slows down again. He doesn’t feel scared or weak. He feels awake. Alert. Strong. They can face it, together, and they will. CCTV surveillance and danger will never not be a part of their lives, but that is okay. 

Of course it is. 

Just like Mycroft’s unannounced visits to Baker Street and the way their lives are linked to each other. 

— 

Mycroft had left in a rush on Christmas Day. As promised, he had come to his parents’ early in the morning to spend the holiday with them. John had witnessed the inquisitive look Sherlock had cast his brother upon arriving alone. He had seen Mycroft’s dismissive frown that had spoken volumes of _Leave it alone, will you, and not a single word to our parents._

John had never seen Matilda as excited as on that day. To be honest, he had never felt this excited on Christmas Day himself, either. He probably never had, on any other day. And no less had he ever seen Sherlock like this, happiness sparkling underneath his usual dismissive attitude towards the holidays. 

Matilda’s first Christmas hadn’t made much of an impression on her, but her second one certainly did. She had been so in awe about the Christmas tree in the Holmes’s living room, about cookies and chocolate and stockings above the fireplace, that it might not have needed any presents to make this her perfect day. 

But of course there have been presents. She got a stuffed chameleon going by “Charley” that had a lamp inside. Its gentle glow was supposed to protect her at night — something Margaret had come up with as a companion for Bee. 

John had had Harry send his old wooden rocking horse over to him at last minute. It was the only toy left that held some of the rare happy memories of his early childhood. Matilda loves it. 

And, finally, next to a pile of books on pirates, bees and the basic principles of the human body, there had been a plastic pirate sitting in a cask that would jump out if you stabbed enough of those little plastic swords into the it. (John still has no idea when Sherlock had found the time to order this particular oddity.) 

Matilda had been so giddy with excitement that John had been certain she would collapse into a fit of bad mood at some point. Surely the sugar high from that overdose of cookies she had sneaked while nobody had been watching hadn’t helped, either. 

In the afternoon, after lunch and even more cookies, they had been lounging in the living room at Sherlock’s parents. Matilda had been pleading Mycroft to play stabbing the pirate with her once again while Sherlock had given in to his mother urging him to play something on the violin. Matilda had suddenly turned her head, searching for John or Sherlock with eyes full of panic, and had thrown up violently all over Mycroft. Cookies and lunch and chocolate and everything. With a screech, Sherlock had stopped playing his violin. John had never seen that look on Mycroft’s face before. 

Sherlock had taken Matilda to her bedroom to clean her and find her some new clothes, while John, every bit the mortified parent, had hurried to the bathroom to help Mycroft clean his suit, which was beyond ruined. He had rushed to open the Holmes’s bathroom cabinets, trying to find towels, wash cloths or anything, to reduce this mess. Mycroft had been looking with helplessness and disbelief from his hands to his suit and down at his shoes, all covered in toddler’s vomit. And then Mycroft’s phone had rung. 

“This is probably urgent. Can you answer it, please?” Mycroft had asked. He hadn’t even started washing his thoroughly soiled hands. 

“Yeah, sure.” John had discarded the towel he had just been about to wet, fished the phone out of the pocket of Mycroft’s jacket and answered it in a hurry. “Hello?” 

“This is Dr Sarala Rayaprolu, Neurology ward at London Bridge Hospital. Am I speaking to Mr Mycroft Holmes?” 

“No… er… hold on,” John had said, looking at Mycroft questioningly. 

_Speaker!_ Mycroft had mouthed and John had tapped on the speaker button. 

“Yes, this is Mycroft Holmes speaking,” Mycroft had replied, somehow managing to sound coolly detached. 

“Sir, Gregory Lestrade was brought here thirty minutes ago. He was treated here four days ago and he insisted on being discharged in spite of his suspected concussion. He is feeling worse now. There is a note in his file that you expect to be notified.” 

“A concussion? That certainly is more than the light headache he has mentioned to me,” Mycroft had replied, not caring to hide either his worry or his exasperation. 

“I’m sorry, sir, we’ve had the file sent over to your office immediately after his discharge,” Dr Rayaprolu had said with the practised professionalism of someone who is used to dealing with illustrious, wealthy or plainly difficult patients on a daily basis. 

“How is his condition?” 

“He has an increasing headache and is feeling nauseous and dizzy. We are running a number of tests, he is doing the CT just now. He will have to stay at least for the night, we have to monitor his brain pressure.” 

Mycroft had been just about to say something when Dr Rayaprolu had interrupted, ”—Hold on, sir, I’m just being told that there is someone else who would like to talk to you.” 

Within in an instant there had been another, much younger voice on the phone, demanding, “Are you Mr Holmes?” 

Mycroft had looked completely puzzled. This had been a boy speaking, probably not older than twelve years. Hard to tell over the telephone. 

“Yes. And I am speaking to…?” 

“My name is Ryan Lestrade. Dad has told me to ask you when you will be coming back to London.” 

For the shortest of moments, an expression of surprise and insecurity had flickered over Mycroft’s face. He had blinked and then, very calmly, said, “Tell him I will be in London within the hour.” 

“Okay.” 

Mycroft had taken a deep breath. “Ryan, how is he?” 

“He said he had a fucking headache, but I’m not supposed to say fucking. But that’s what he said. He was feeling sick, too.” 

“I’m sorry. Why did he ask you to talk to me and not Dr Rayaprolu?” 

“She had left the room already. He made me run after her when she had left to call you. He really wants to see you, I guess,” Ryan says with all the doubt in his voice that a twelve-year-old can have about his father’s strange behaviour. 

“Oh. I see. Thank you, Ryan.” 

John couldn’t help but noticing that the British Government had sounded surprisingly out of his depths. 

“Bye, Mr Holmes.” Ryan had said and hung up without waiting for Mycroft’s reply. 

John had put the phone on the cabinet next to the basin. He hadn’t been sure what it was that he had just witnessed here. 

Mycroft had blinked again, cleared his throat and looked at John for a moment. “I suppose I should change into a new suit now,” he had said and finally started to wash his hands. After he had taken off his waistcoat and started undoing his cufflinks and the buttons of his shirt, John had realized that he was staring. He had never seen Mycroft looking less than impeccable and now he had proved to actually be a human being, warm skin and underwear and everything. He had rarely seen him so puzzled, too. 

“Right,” John had said awkwardly, “Er… I’d better leave you to it. I’ll just have a look at…,” he had trailed off, nodding towards the door and turning to leave. 

Mycroft had held John’s gaze for an instant longer than necessary and then gave him the smallest of nods. 

Mycroft had been gone three minutes after having changed into a fresh suit, stored in his old bedroom for emergencies. John had explained to the others that there had been a call from London, that his presence had been required immediately. No one had been surprised to find him gone, and nobody had asked where exactly he had been headed. 

— 

“Another whisky?” 

Marcus’s voice tears John out of his thoughts. He really shouldn’t have another one, he thinks. But it’s New Year’s Eve, he doesn’t have to take care of Matilda tonight and it really is a good whisky. He nods. 

Marcus pours two fingers of the the dark golden liquid into John’s tumbler. Sherlock wordlessly holds out his own heavy glass to his father. 

Their eyes meet across the room. Their eye contact makes something inside John’s belly stir. John can’t help but smile at him and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. There is a playful and challenging expression in Sherlock’s eyes. John blushes and can’t believe he is actually blushing — he isn’t a teenager anymore, he isn’t inexperienced and surely not easily out of his depths, sexually. Or so he thought. He knows exactly what Sherlock is thinking of, looking at him like this. 

John has to look away and instead inspects the tumbler of whisky in his hand. He lifts the glass to his lips to cover his smile and takes a sip. He nods at Marcus, grateful for the obligation to keep up with manners. 

“Thanks, Marcus,” he says, trying to keep his voice casual. He feels Sherlock’s gaze prickle his skin and he bites his lower lip, still trying to hide his smile. When his eyes meet Sherlock’s again, they are full of warmth, care, love. His heart beats three, four times, before Sherlock starts talking to his father again, slowly turning his head to Marcus, but still looking knowingly at John for another long moment. 

— 

When they still hadn’t heard anything from Mycroft the day after he had left in hurry, John had texted Greg. 

_Hey Greg. You okay? Still in hospital? -John_

_Fine. Well — sort of. Post-concussive syndrome. Have to take it very slowly for a while now. And I was discharged today._

Raising his eyebrows, John had leaned back in his chair and stared at the screen of his phone. But it had made sense — Sherlock had told him that Sokół had given Greg a hard blow to the head with his gun, so a concussion was likely. Some people did end up with post-concussive syndrome, especially when not resting enough after the initial head trauma. It usually meant headaches for several weeks or months, fatigue and dizziness, as well as irritability, difficulty in concentration. John had shaken his head. The list went on — impairment of memory, insomnia, and reduced tolerance to stress. Greg probably wouldn’t be working for a while. 

_I’m such an idiot!_ John had thought. He had been so occupied with Sherlock that day that he hadn’t given Greg’s “minor headache” any thought. Greg never should have left hospital that early. 

_Damn. PCS can be really tough. Be careful. I mean it. -John_

_I will. Mycroft refused to let me go to my own place to make sure I’m not getting myself in hospital again._

_It will probably take a couple of weeks until the symptoms subside. Mycroft’s looking after you? Or is he too busy wrapping up the mission? -John_

_He’s taking some time off, too. He hasn’t been to the office for more than a couple of hours since he got back to London on Christmas day._

_That’s good to hear. I’ll text you when we’re back home. Now switch off your phone and get some rest! :) -John_

_Yeah, doctor’s orders, I can see where this is going. Looking forward to seeing the three of you. :-)_

To his surprise, he had received another text from Greg an hour later, a long and emotional one that didn’t fit in with their usual line of talking. 

_You know what? Mycroft’s really — committing himself. Never would have taken him for a family person, but he even called my ex and the kids to tell them about my state when I was too tired to do so earlier. He’s here, all the time, looking after me. God, I feel like I’m — I haven’t felt this way in years._

Sherlock had leaned over John’s shoulder to read Greg’s text. 

“Mycroft would be a fool to cock this up,” had been all Sherlock had said before kissing John’s temple. 

But he was getting lost in thought. 

_Must be the whisky,_ John thinks, slowly turning the heavy glass in his hand. He looks at Sherlock again, who is casting him stolen sideways glances while talking to his father, who smiles as their gazes lock. 

— 

John had sent Greg a short text in reply earlier _(That’s great to hear. I’m so happy for you. -John)_. Now his phone had been lying in the bathroom, completely forgotten, together with his discarded clothes. 

Sherlock had laughed. It had been a low, rolling sound deep in his chest, just a chuckle, but John could feel it. He had felt the rumble through the muscles in his arse. And this fact had made John chuckle as well. 

He had been able to feel Sherlock’s laughter because he had been sitting on Sherlock’s chest and he had been very, very naked. The evening had taken an interesting turn from watching the latest Bond film to a shared shower. They had ended up wrestling each other playfully down on their bed. Sherlock had almost got the upper hand and had been pulling John on top of him until he had been straddling his ribcage. 

“Lift your leg, John,” Sherlock had said, still grinning, and trying to wriggle his left arm and shoulder under John’s thigh and pulling John up a bit higher, letting him come to a rest. 

“I’m trying!” John had replied with a huff of laughter, almost overbalancing. He only had stopped himself from tumbling all over Sherlock’s head by putting his hands against the headboard in time. 

“That’s actually… good. Stay like this,” Sherlock had said, looking up at John from between his legs. And then he had taken John’s half-hard cock with his right hand and guided it into his mouth. 

Sherlock had taken him down deep. John had exhaled with a heavy sigh. Within moments, every nerve ending apparently had been re-routed to his cock. It had been getting hard after the first teasing swirls of tongue, growing bigger in Sherlock’s wicked mouth, firing delicious sensations that had been overwriting everything else on his mind. 

John had devoured the feeling, groaning in a low voice that had lost every trace of chuckling. He couldn’t help but lift his hips from Sherlock and start rolling his hips. He would want to thrust, later, in a bit. Thrust into Sherlock’s mouth, holding back at first, trying not to thrust too hard. Eventually he would give up, because he knew Sherlock could take him like this. Wanted him like this. 

For now, Sherlock had cupped his buttocks, rubbed circles across his skin and dug his fingers into the muscle. Words of praise had already been forming on John’s mind. But when he had opened his eyes to find Sherlock looking at him with dark eyes, a stray, still damp curl plastered across his forehead, he had lost everything he had been wanting to say. John could have sworn there still had been a hint of a smile playing around his lips. 

He had slid in and out of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s tongue had been grazing over his frenulum and across the head, sucking lightly, until John had pushed back in, past the hard palate and down his throat. He had felt one of Sherlock’s big hands cupping his balls. He had inhaled sharply and let out his breath with a moan. 

He could have gone on like this forever. Until he would have been desperate to thrust, until he couldn’t have resisted it. Until he would have come down Sherlock’s throat with a stifled cry. When the movement of Sherlock’s right arm and the way this blowjob turned messier would have given away that Sherlock was getting himself off at the same time. 

But Sherlock had let John slide out of his mouth. The air had felt cool against his wet cock. An instant later, he had felt Sherlock’s tongue on his perineum and both his hands on his arse. John had been panting and absently noticed Sherlock shifting underneath him once more. He had felt Sherlock’s tongue venture from his perineum further back and further and _further_ — John had tensed realizing where this was going. 

“This okay? John?” Sherlock had asked, sounding gravelly with arousal and the insecure excitement that comes with daring to try something new, to push their boundaries further. 

“Er… yeah. Yeah, think so,” John had replied with a shaky voice. For a moment, he hadn’t been sure if he should have protested — which would have been ridiculous, given how often he had done this exact thing to Sherlock. Given how much he loves doing it, how he loves feeling Sherlock unravel, squirm under his touch, under his mouth, under his tongue, until he is begging. 

Sherlock had dragged him out of his thoughts by crawling further down, getting up to kneel behind him and licking another stripe up his perineum until he had almost touched his entrance. John’s heart had hammered wildly against his chest and he was breathing hard. Some part of him still had wanted to withdraw, to stop and laugh about this, to go back to safe territory. 

But John had exhaled and tried to relax. Sherlock had given his buttocks a gentle squeeze and placed a kiss to the tender skin behind his balls. 

Sherlock had proceeded licking him, slowly and carefully drawing closer to his hole. It had felt _so_ intense. John had never dared acknowledging how sensitive he was there. 

Ever since he and Sherlock had started having sex, John had been happy and busy exploring Sherlock’s body and every reaction he could coax out of him. He had been so happy and so busy that he hadn’t thought ( _avoided thinking,_ John had to admit) of being rimmed or fingered himself. Or fucked, that is. It might have made him too vulnerable, too open. It might have felt too much like very, very gay sex. He was ashamed to admit that. He was in a gay relationship, damn it, and in the best relationship at that. 

_It’s fucking nonsense,_ John had thought, struggling to make up his mind while all of this had been happening. _It is just… me. Him. Making me feel..._ — John had been startled to see that his cock was leaking, its head glistening with precome, about to draw a glassy thread down towards the mattress — _so good. Fuck. So good._

And this had been when John had understood that his body had been definitely enjoying this. And that, against all expectations and hidden worries, he had been enjoying this. And he finally had managed to stop thinking. 

He had exhaled for what felt like the umpteenth time, leaning forward and letting his head sink down to rest on his arm on the headboard, spreading his buttocks a little wider. 

“Yes. You’re doing so well. Relax, John,” Sherlock had breathed against the wet skin of his arse. Sherlock had been holding him with his large hand wearing that small band of metal, steadying him. 

Another ragged exhale from John. And another gentle lick from Sherlock. He had been almost there, teasing him, testing the waters, almost touching his hole with the tip of his tongue. Suddenly it had been maddening not to feel his tongue there. 

For a heartbeat John had allowed himself to feel this. _I want him there. I want him to do this. I want it_ — and at that, he had moaned in defeat — _now._

“Do it, Sherlock. God, do it, please.” 

It had been nothing but a whimper. 

Sherlock had paused for the shortest of moments. He had placed another loving, agonizing kiss against the patch of skin just in front of that tight muscle and then started licking against his entrance. 

It had been electrifying. There must have been an immediate connection between his anus and his cock. John understood at once how people were able to come from rimming alone. Helplessly, he had panted a string of curses and he had been sure he had felt Sherlock’s surprised smile against his arse in response. Sherlock’s tongue touching his hole had felt strangely satisfying. At the same time, it had multiplied his desperate need for more. Most of all, it had been the most arousing thing he had felt in a long time. 

It was different from the kind of sex he was well-versed in. It felt different from having his cock or his balls sucked. It had felt bloody amazing — the more of those gentle caresses Sherlock had licked against his hole, the more he had felt his cock getting heavy, the more he had got drunk on arousal. 

He had hesitantly allowed himself to lean into the touch, still bracing himself on the headboard. Sherlock had given his entrance little sucks that had made John gasp. After a while, the gasping turne into downright moans and then John hadn’t been able to stop moaning. 

He had stopped thinking altogether. He had just been feeling, devouring this strange and shocking sensation. 

Sherlock had licked John, steadily and relentlessly. It had felt like an eternity now that John had thought he was about to come any minute now, but he hadn’t. It had just got more, better, more intense without ever going into over-sensitivity and his mind had been filled by a frantic chant of _Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes._

Sherlock had paused for a moment, catching his breath. He had spread John’s buttocks with his hands and held him and for a second, the thought of _God please don’t stop_ had swished across John’s mind. But Sherlock hadn’t stopped. 

He had probed. He had pushed his tongue against John’s hole and entered it. John had held his breath and was incapable of even cursing. _Probably not very far, just past the sphincter,_ the medically trained part of John’s brain had supplied while the rest of John had been about to fall apart from either lust or some weird brand of embarrassment, because this had felt absolutely overwhelming. John never would have thought he would be so turned on by it. 

“Oh God, oh my fucking God. Oh my fucking God. Oh my fucking… _Oh God…_ ” John had panted. The headboard had been getting moist with the humidity that had been condensing on the dark wood with each of John’s heavy exhales. 

His hips had started thrusting against Sherlock’s tongue on their own account. His cock had been throbbing and he had reached for it, worked it up and down, hard. 

Never in his life had he felt something faintly resembling this. 

He doesn’t have any idea how many strokes it had taken him to come finally, crying out loud. He had ridden the orgasm that followed for ages, for so long it must have been bleeding into eternity, pumping his fist while Sherlock had fucked him with his tongue. In the end he had collapsed on his side with a whimper, going completely boneless. 

Sherlock had risen from somewhere behind him. God, Sherlock, looking wrecked himself and so beautiful and fierce with want. He had crushed against John, kissing John’s neck and sucking it hard enough to leave marks. John had cupped his face and hungrily started to kiss his wet mouth. He had tasted a tint earthy, musky and unusual, but it had been amazing all the same. After a moment of narrow-eyed wonder and surprise Sherlock had kissed back fervently. Sherlock had wrapped his hand around his own cock and mirrored the exact thing John had done moments ago. John had watched him, watched Sherlock’s arousal, his need and he had felt inexplicably grateful for all of this. 

He had felt Sherlock’s strokes grow erratic and his hips buck. And then Sherlock had been coming, spilling his semen over his hand and John’s stomach, calling out John’s name. 

Time had come to a halt. There had been nothing but the noise of John’s own blood rustling over the pounding of his heart. Later, they had wrapped their arms around each other. He had brushed slow kisses into Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock had kissed John’s collarbone in return. They had been catching their breath and their hands had been languidly stroking warm, damp skin. 

“Thank you,” John had finally said. “I guess I wouldn’t have tried this… for another long time. Wouldn’t have asked for it.” 

“You wanted this. You’ve just never allowed yourself to want it,” Sherlock had replied, his eyes still closed. 

— 

“Oh, it’s almost midnight, why doesn’t anyone say something? I’ll just get some drinks!” Margaret exclaims after having a look at her watch. She closes her book, gets up from the sofa and hurries into the kitchen. A moment later she calls from inside the kitchen, “Marcus, where did you put the sherry?” 

Marcus rises from his chair next to Sherlock. “I’d better help her then. — Coming, Marge!” 

Sherlock’s parents are pottering about in the kitchen, cabinets are being opened and glasses put on a tray. There is muffled talking, a back and forth on where to find the bottle of _Lustau Moscatel Emilin._

John pushes the woollen blanket aside and gets up, too. He feels the effect of the whisky stronger than before. He straightens and walks to Sherlock, who is still sitting in his chair and staring at the embers in the fireplace. He puts a hand on the warm skin of Sherlock’s nape and Sherlock leans into the touch with a low hum. 

“Violin?” Sherlock asks like a school kid that’s pressed to play Christmas carols for the family gathering. 

“Violin. Go make your parents happy,” John replies. 

With a sigh, Sherlock drags himself to standing and picks up both his violin and his bow. He starts tuning it and outside, the a few scattered fireworks disrupt the silence. Sherlock’s parents get back into the living room and Margaret’s face light up at the sight of Sherlock with his instrument. Sherlock shoots John a helpless glance and John can’t hide his smile. 

While Margaret is still pouring dark, velvety sherry into four glasses, Sherlock finishes tuning his violin. When the low rumble of the faraway fireworks is getting slightly louder after what must have been the ten seconds countdown till midnight, he starts playing _Auld Lang Syne_. He plays beautifully, adding the most gentle vibrato and dragging the notes out just the tiniest bit to make the old song sound even more melancholy. 

Sherlock puts down the violin and draws John into a swift embrace and kisses him. “Happy new year, John.”  
  
“Happy new year,” John replies.  
  
They hug Sherlock’s parents. Margaret kisses John’s cheek and Marcus pats him on the back. They touch glasses and toast to the new year. 

“May it be such a wonderful year for the three of you,” Margaret says with a beaming smile before she takes a sip from her sherry.  
  
Some time later, while Marcus puts another log into the embers in the fireplace and Margaret gets a plate of Christmas cookies from the kitchen, Sherlock turns to kiss him once more, his tongue briefly flickering against John’s. It is still a quick kiss, but it is intense and sensual, sweet from the sherry. When Sherlock draws back, his light eyes are wet. 

“Hey,” John whispers and rubs his thumb over Sherlock’s cheek. 

“It’s okay,” Sherlock whispers back. 

He knows what Sherlock is thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they will go back to Baker Street, on the first day of the new year. It does feel a bit like the first day of the rest of their lives. Their life together, this new chapter of it which has started six days ago on Christmas morning. 

— 

John had opened his eyes. Pale December morning light had seeped through the closed curtains. It had been Christmas morning. He had turned. It had been warm under the duvet, he could feel the heat emanating from Sherlock’s body so close to his. He had shifted a few inches closer, enjoying the shared heat. 

Sherlock had been curled up on his side, facing John in his sleep. The stitches on his forehead were healing well and the bruises on his left arm and down on his ribcage had turned from red to blue. 

He had kissed Sherlock’s dishevelled curls and the skin above his nose, faintly lined from crinkling in disbelief countless times. He loves that look on Sherlock’s face. He loves that special spot in his face. He had kissed it again. Just because he could. Just because they were here, together. He had kissed him carefully, barely touching, trying not to wake him. 

John had felt Sherlock smile, there had been a hint of movement under his lips. 

“Good morning,” Sherlock had mumbled against his pillow without even opening his eyes, his voice still a bit rough from sleep. Sherlock had been smiling. A small, deeply content and closed eyes smile. 

John had smiled as well, pecked another kiss on his forehead and inhaled the scent of his hair. 

“I’ve missed you so badly,” Sherlock had said in a low voice after a while, sounding as if someone had erased the lightness from his heart. His smile had been fading, and the shadow of the past weeks had been clinging to him again. The sadness only crept in occasionally now. Sometimes John sees it darken Sherlock’s eyes for a few moments only. Sometimes it casts its shadow over his soul for the duration of a cigarette he never smokes at the house in Sussex. 

Lying in their bed on Christmas morning, Sherlock hadn’t moved, hadn’t put his arm around John. He hadn’t shifted closer to strengthen his statement, or to bereave the time of their separation of its power. 

Slowly, John had kissed him once more, his lips gently brushing across Sherlock’s. He had felt Sherlock ease up a little. 

“I’ve missed you, too, Sherlock. God, how I’ve missed you.” 

He had leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s. 

_Maybe… now,_ John had thought. 

His heart had started to beat so loudly he had been sure Sherlock would be able to sense it. John had turned and got the small package from the black paper bag he had stuffed into his bedside cabinet. 

When he had tried to speak, nothing had come out. He had cleared his throat and had taken a deep breath. Why had his heart been beating so hard? Why had he been feeling as if he had to earn how to speak again, how to form vowels and consonants, how to arrange words into meaningful sentences? 

“Sherlock.” 

He had tried to swallow down the giant lump in his throat. 

“Sherlock, will you—” 

His voice had croaked one last time, his throat had suddenly felt impossibly tight and he hadn’t been able to force out any other word. So he had just put the small gift in Sherlock’s large hands. 

Sherlock still hadn’t opened his eyes. For some time, he had only held it. Then he had touched the smooth and heavy wrapping paper, glided his fingertips over the package, shaking it softly. No noise from the inside. 

John had watched him. The beauty of Sherlock’s long fingers had taken him by surprise. He had watched them so often, and so much, and yet they never ceased to fascinate him. He had had to fight the impulse to take them, press them against his lips and kiss them. 

Sherlock had explored the gift with his hands and fingers only, he had carefully weighed the package in the palm of his hand. After a minute, he had slid one finger under the wrapping paper and torn it away with a few well-measured moves. A silky black box had appeared. His fingertips had found the fine furrow where the lid meets the lower part of the box and glided along there for a long moment. With a tiny plop, Sherlock had opened the lid. When Sherlock’s fingers had travelled over the silvery ring inside, John had swallowed again. Hard. 

With his eyes still closed, Sherlock had carefully taken it out, closed his hand around it until the cool metal had taken up the warmth of his body. He had breathed in slowly and very deeply, just holding the ring. It had only been this, the way he had been breathing, that had given away how much must have been going on inside him right now. 

When Sherlock had opened his hand, he had taken the ring and placed it in John’s hand. 

“Yes,” Sherlock had breathed. 

“Sherlock, will you—” 

Sherlock had opened his eyes. 

Catching Sherlock’s eye had felt like standing on stage in front of a one-man-audience, being in the limelight of Sherlock’s attention. John had been sure Sherlock’s eyes had never before looked that bright and clear, oscillating between facets of silvery green and blue. Focused on nothing but him. 

“Yes, John, of course,” Sherlock had whispered and kissed John. He had stretched out his right hand to John. John had slipped the warm ring over Sherlock’s finger and intertwined their hands. 

“Sherlock, will you marry me?” John had managed to say, finally, his voice ragged and on edge. He had been nervous although Sherlock had already said yes, the momentousness had been weighing down on him. 

“Yes, John, I will,” Sherlock had replied and now it had been his voice that had been shaking, his eyes had been glistening with unshed tears. He had drawn John close into an embrace, kissing him passionately. 

This kiss had had nothing in common with the careful feather-light pecks John had brushed over Sherlock’s lips and face earlier. It had been deep, absolute and consuming, without compromise. 

John wants Sherlock at his side, always, without compromise. He wants him to be a father to his daughter, he wants his fucking name, if Sherlock cares about that. He wants the world to know that Sherlock Holmes isn’t his partner or best friend or boyfriend, he wants it to know that he is his husband, his, that they are doing this, together, always. The two of them. Against all odds, against the rest of the world, if needed. 

John had kissed back just as fiercely, pouring all his determination, his love, his need for Sherlock in his life into it. 

It had left them both breathless. 

“I’ve missed you so fucking much every single day of this mission. I won’t ever let you go again,” John had whispered when they had broken the kiss, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s again, his chest heaving. “I was so worried. So worried. Sherlock. Never again.” 

“Never again,” Sherlock had agreed before capturing John’s mouth again in another kiss. 

As the thought of _We’re getting married. I’m going to marry Sherlock_ had seeped into John’s mind and his heart, their kisses had grown lighter. John had felt joy bubbling ridiculously in his belly and at some point, he hadn’t been able stop smiling, which had made kissing difficult. 

“What?” Sherlock had asked, his lips still on John’s. 

“We’re getting married,” John had said with a grin. “We’re engaged to be married.” His voice had been full of wonder and amazement, even to his own ears. 

“We are.” Sherlock had just sounded just the same, happy, overwhelmed and still a little incredulous. He had turned from his side to his back, wiped his hand over his eyes and stretched his left hand up in the air. A simple band of platinum, clean and shiny. John had had to admit that Sherlock’s fingers were made for wearing a ring. The joints of his fingers are slightly broader than the long phalanges and so the ring sits a little loosely on his fourth finger, emphasizing the elegance of his hand even more. John had been about to lose his mind over the fact that he will marry this breathtaking, brave, amazing man with his ridiculously large, elegant _hands_ of all things. 

“It’s… beautiful,” Sherlock had said. “So beautiful.” 

John had taken Sherlock’s hand, weaving their fingers together. The ring on Sherlock’s finger had pressed hard and unfamiliar against his own skin. 

_Just perfect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another sunrise with my sad captains  
> With who I choose to lose my mind  
> And if it’s so we only pass this way but once  
> What a perfect waste of time  
>   
> [ Elbow, My Sad Captains](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipaDJq7XCSM)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ride to London has been calm, Matilda slept and so did John, crouched into his seat next to him. Clouds were scattered in the sky, sunlight has lit bright spots on the ground. The wind has pushed into the car. It is a windy day, clear, and the air is fresh, even in London. The icy chill of the last days is gone.

Sherlock closes the boot and locks the car. 

For the ride home, they have taken the car John had been given when they had gone to Sussex almost two months ago. Sherlock’s mother had wiped a few tears from her eyes as they left and made them promise they would be back in a few weeks. 

The ride to London has been calm, Matilda slept and so did John, crouched into his seat next to him. Clouds were scattered in the sky, sunlight has lit bright spots on the ground. The wind has pushed into the car. It is a windy day, clear, and the air is fresh, even in London. The icy chill of the last days is gone. 

John lifts up Matilda on his arms and carries her and their bag to the black door of 221b. 

In a few minutes, they will walk up the stairs to their flat, to their home. Matilda will be squealing with joy, Sherlock knows her. She will be stomping through every single room, capturing and reclaiming it. Mrs Hudson will come upstairs later, bringing a cake or cookies or some other food. She will hug both John and Sherlock and she will cuddle Matilda. And she will make them promise never to leave Baker Street for such a long time again. 

Tomorrow they will have breakfast in bed. He will go and get Matilda when she wakes, read her all the books she loves, propped up against the headboard of their bed in the bedroom that used to be his, years ago, when all of this had started. She will sit on his lap, cuddled against his chest while John is still lying half asleep on his pillow. John will nuzzle his head against his thigh until he gets up with a sigh to prepare breakfast for the three of them. Matilda will feed him toast and John will kiss him over tea and he will taste like raspberry jam. 

Matilda will never remember any place but this as her home. She won’t remember the house in the suburb, she won’t even remember the safe house. It will only ever be 221b. She won’t remember them as anything but her parents. 

Sherlock wants to see her grow up here. He wants to watch her leaving the house through the black door for school in the morning from the living room windows. Lingering on the pavements in front of Speedy’s with her friends, unable to tear herself away from them. He wants to see the posters she will put on her bedrooms walls. All the things she will add to this place. Her favourite cup. Toys and clothes and backpacks and books. He wants all of it. He wants more photographs of her, of the three of them, to put them on the mantelpiece. 

He wants to see all of this with John. 

_John._

He wants to grow old with him, he really does. He never knew what to think of ageing. It had never been very appealing to him. There have been times in the past when it didn’t look as if he would get too old anyway. He doesn’t actually feel old yet. Yes, he is a lot older than when he first met John — he had been a different Sherlock back then. Just like the young man who had been in love with Victor a lifetime ago had been a different Sherlock. 

But he wants this, them, here. Forever. The silver ring feels warm and heavy on his finger. 

He discovers another thing. 

He is ready for it. 

When he left Baker Street two months ago, he had loved John and Matilda no less. He had been John’s partner, his boyfriend. And Matilda’s… well, she called him _pa_. He never bothered labelling it. Never dared to, possibly. 

He comes back as a father, with every legal right, every obligation and all the responsibility that comes with parenthood. And he comes back as a fiancé, as a husband-to-be. With the man who has asked to marry him, to spend the rest of his life with him. Sherlock can’t possibly put into words how this makes him feel. No words can contain this joy. 

“Sherlock, you coming?” John calls from inside the house. He is standing on the stairs, holding Matilda on his right hand to help her climbing the stairs, their bag slung over his shoulder. 

Sherlock looks at Baker Street, at their house. Mr Chatterjee is nodding at him from inside Speedy’s. A few Londoners pass him by on the pavement, some of them lost in thought. Others are reading something on their mobile while carefully trying not to bump into someone else, carrying their shopping bags. Everything is calm. No hired killers talking on the phone, no one following them. 

Sherlock nods at the CCTV camera overlooking their street. He blinks and goes inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the journey is over! I have been working on this fic for more than a year and this past year was pretty eventful for me. Somehow this fic somehow has been there all the time. So I'm a bit emotional.
> 
> I need to thank some people without whom I wouldn't have been able to write it the way I did:  
> First of all, my wonderful friends and betas @toosel and @ennisnovember. You're nothing short of amazing.
> 
> And @icanwritesee, @green-violin-bow, @jbaillier, @isitandwonder, @lakritzkatze, @SinceWhenDoYouCallMe-John and, last but not least, my patient and supportive husband. <3 
> 
> Thank you so much, all of you. You've helped me so much and made writing this fic such a pleasure. You're invaluable, each and every one of of you.
> 
> \---
> 
> Now. There is a plot for a third part on my laptop. We shall see.


End file.
